


After the End

by Castielslostwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Camp Chitaqua (Supernatural), Canon Compliant, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Chuck Shurley is God, Dean Winchester Wears Panties, Episode: s05e04 The End, Fix-It, Free Will, Happy Ending, Inspired by Down to Agincourt Series - seperis, M/M, Mentions of past Castiel/others - Freeform, Picks up Immediately after The End, Post-Apocalypse, Season 15 references (vague), Yes I swear this is Endverse AND is low angst AND happy, explicit gay sex, low angst, switch Dean/Cas, temporary MCD (dean's canon death at lucifer's hand in the rose garden)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26204458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings/pseuds/Castielslostwings
Summary: In 2014, Dean Winchester led a raid on the asylum in Detroit where a Sam-wearing-Lucifer was waiting for him. Everyone knows what happened next: the Chitaquan soldiers who accompanied Dean died horribly at the hands of Lucifer’s minions while Lucifer murdered Dean in the garden below and warned the Dean from days past that no matter what he tried, he would always end up there. There were no survivors.Or were there? This story picks up where “The End” leaves off, from Castiel’s perspective from inside the asylum, a twist of fate, and conditional divine intervention no one saw coming. It details what happens after Lucifer dies, Dean lives, and the world doesn’t actually stop turning. A canon-compliant “fix-it” fic for the Endverse and a Dean and Cas who deserved better.Or: "The End" was not the End. This is the story of what came after.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 264
Kudos: 425
Collections: Apocafics, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Detroit

**Author's Note:**

> Join us in watching while Castiel and Dean figure out how to navigate not being a pair of hapless, hopeless, broken burnouts at the end of the world. With a brand new survivor's colony and a fledgling militia counting on them, at least they have each other to lean on. 
> 
> But that still leaves the all-important question unanswered... What comes next?
> 
> ****  
> This fic is COMPLETE and will be posted chapter-by-chapter over the next couple of days.  
> Thank you to @thetwistedwillow, @coinofstone, and @ellenofoz who edited this 100 years ago and did an amazing job.  
> This is probably my favorite fic that I've ever written. I love Endverse and I just love this story. If you are a "[Down to Agincourt (by Seperis)](https://archiveofourown.org/series/110651)" fan, you will definitely notice some shoutouts. They are intentional! Thank you, Seperis, for existing and for letting me borrow some of your wonderful tone (and maybe some lowkey settings) from the best fic on the planet.  
> Having said that, this fic is NOT DtoA, it's defintely end!dean/end!castiel, and not nearly as complex. It's a pretty straightforward fix-it for The End with some allusions/implications for Season 15. I hope you all enjoy. <3

Of all the various wild and horrific things Castiel expected might happen as a result of Dean’s suicidal plan to storm Lucifer’s asylum, coming face-to-face with God wasn’t one of them. It happened shortly after Dean died, which, though Castiel _had_ expected it, was still quite a mind-fuck to watch. His thoughts naturally on other things, like turning around in time to stab the demon creeping up on him in the throat, _God’s_ particular whereabouts were more or less the very last concern on Castiel’s mind. 

Understandably so. 

After all, Dean Winchester was dead, and Castiel needed to deal with that while he still could. It was an unambiguous thing; Dean’s neck had been broken, snapped like a twig underneath Lucifer’s ugly-ass white suede shoe. Castiel had watched Sam Winchester’s body murder his older brother from a broken, gaping, glass-less window on one of the upper floors of the decrepit building. Not that he had a mirror to know, but he’s fairly certain his face showed thinly veiled disgust and not nearly as much worry as one would expect. 

After all, they’d planned for this. 

Still, time is of the essence, and all magic has its limits, even the powerful stuff (possibly literally) burning a hole in Castiel’s pocket. It’s for that reason that Castiel doesn’t linger at the window to watch Lucifer engage with the future-version of Dean. His own Dean had undoubtedly been right about Zachariah protecting him. _That_ Dean, the alive one, would shortly be returned to a timeline where he could still make a difference, still say yes, still potentially avoid all of this devastation and pain. 

Not that he would. Castiel knew that as well as his Dean did. And yet, despite holding that unshakeable certainty, Castiel can’t help but hope for Past Dean (Future Dean? It’s all very confusing) all the same. Him and his still-free brother, and their enviable belief that there is _always hope, always another way._ Castiel wonders if his past self will be waiting for Dean when he returns, if Dean will tell him what— _who—_ he saw here. The thought almost makes him laugh—as if that version of himself would ever be able to understand the depths of his depravity, how far he— _they—_ would willingly fall for Dean. 

Maybe he would. Maybe Castiel doesn’t give himself enough credit. After all, even understanding all of this, that the outcome is known, that the war they’re fighting was over before it began—Castiel would do it, all of it, again without a moment’s hesitation.

For Dean. 

At the door to the hallway, Castiel waits patiently, listening for sounds of Lucifer’s minions still roaming the halls. It’s quieter now, the sounds of gunfire and screaming having petered out. Castiel’s not a fool; he knows what that means. It’s very likely that everyone from Camp Chitaqua who came into the asylum alongside him is dead. Unfortunately for them, unlike Dean, there is no Plan B for his Lieutenants. 

If Castiel stops to dwell on the fact that those people might have considered him a friend, had he ever taken the time to get to know them, that might be sad. The End hasn’t left a lot of room for friends. It hasn’t left a lot of room for grieving, or sadness, or any kind of feelings at all. So Castiel pauses in his walk down the now-silent hallway to pull a pill bottle from his jacket pocket and shake a few of whatever is in there out. 

_Party mix,_ he calls it, because it’s colorful and also he has no idea what’s in it. _Might feel better, might feel worse. That’s the fun of party mix,_ he’d once joked to Dean, except that it wasn’t a joke, and Dean didn’t think he was very funny. Castiel laughs at the memory and stabs the demon that jumps out from behind the next open door with barely a token flinch. 

Dry swallowing makes the pills feel as if they’re stuck in his throat long after they’ve gone down. 

Somewhere between the fourth and third floors as Castiel descends with his rifle at the ready, it happens. At first, Castiel thinks he must be dead, and the only thing he feels about that is disappointment in himself that he wasn’t able to get to Dean in time. _Now Dean will be dead forever,_ he thinks. Perhaps most people would be relieved about that. Surely, if Dean is dead, he will be in Heaven. Dean deserves that. 

Conversely, Castiel’s under no similar delusions about his own soul. _If_ he has one—and that’s a _big_ if, considering how the remnants of his angelic powers (the ones that his human vessel is able to contain—enhanced memory, awareness of space and time, a particular propensity for blood magic, strangely enough) persist. But _if_ he has one, he’s entirely certain his brothers and sisters will ensure that it is directed definitively downwards, dooming Castiel to eternal torment for what they made no bones about seeing as the ultimate betrayal. 

Which is fine with Castiel. After laying siege to Hell for the better part of forty years to rescue the Righteous Man, he knows the landscape well enough. In fact, Castiel is so confident in his Hell-knowledge, that if he wasn’t already intending to utilize one of the backdoor portals _out_ of Hell just as quickly as he arrives down there, he might lay siege all over again. Just for fun, this time. After all, he’s been an angel and a mortal, why not the King of Hell? Perhaps he’ll take over for no other reason than to hand the entire place over to Dean as a gift. One shouldn’t show up at another’s Heaven without a proper gift. 

Regardless, death should be welcome, for Castiel. If both he and Dean are dead, then he’ll see Dean again, one way or another. Even if he has to slaughter the entirety of Heaven’s armies to do so. Castiel just isn’t looking forward to the lecture he’s going to get for not making it out of the building in time, and thus, leaving Dean to his own irreversible demise. With any luck, Paradise will make Dean less of a condescending asshole, but Castiel’s not holding his breath. 

The problem with all that is, Castiel is not dead. He only _assumed_ he was dead, because it was the logical assumption. The sights and sounds engulfing all of his senses are not anything a human (or a demon, or any other being Castiel has known in the history of existence, save for an angel) has ever survived. And Castiel… Well, he is no angel, barest traces of residual power notwithstanding. 

Thrown flat onto his back by the sudden, seemingly limitless— _endless—_ explosion of the whole world around him, Castiel can hardly breathe, never mind move, much less react in any meaningful way. The light surrounding him—it’s so _pure._ So vast and all-encompassing, terrifying and welcoming all at the same time. Castiel’s never seen the light for himself, but he’d know it anywhere, the way a mortal infant instinctively knows its own mother. And the _song—_ the sacred hymn filling his ears; the words, the lilt, the powerful way Castiel’s bones tremble and his skin hums—humans aren’t meant to survive this, _can’t survive this,_ and suddenly Castiel understands why.

Tears leak from his eyes as he’s overcome, both desperate and furious at once, wanting to yell and scream and curse obscenities while simultaneously begging and pleading for forgiveness. 

_“Father,”_ Castiel finally manages to utter through fiercely gritted teeth, in a language he hasn’t spoken since before he Fell. A language he vowed he would never speak again, the tongue of his family who had so easily forsaken him. 

Just like that, all the light goes out of the room, and the air with it. _No, not the air,_ just the sound of Castiel’s Father’s voice filling it. Instantly, Castiel is left gasping on the floor, floundering like a fish, the one who crawled out of the muck all those millennia ago. Rolling onto his side, Castiel coughs and works to expand his mortal lungs once again while they burn and insist on feeling as if they’re melting away inside of him. 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” an all-too familiar voice sounds from in front of him, and Castiel cracks an eye open with a groan. “Come on,” Chuck says, spreading his arms wide before crossing them over his chest. He’s wearing a plain t-shirt and jeans, clean, a look Cas hasn’t seen on Chuck in years. Although, considering, Castiel’s wondering if he’s ever actually seen Chuck at all. “I kept your eyes from burning out of your skull and all the other important stuff. The least you could do is _thank_ me.” Chuck huffs. “Ungrateful,” he continues, wagging a finger in Castiel’s direction as he starts to pace. “Just like your little friends. My _would-be_ heroes. Well, maybe we can still fix that.” 

Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Castiel dimly wonders if he should kneel or avert his eyes or perform some other prostrating gesture. Oh, hell, why start now? “Where the fuck have you been?” he demands instead, and Chuck laughs.

“Now _there_ is the Castiel we’ve all grown to love. So sassy, so spunky.” Chuck— _God, Jesus, fuck, Castiel is never going to get used to that—giggles,_ which feels particularly offensive but even Castiel knows when to hold ‘em. “You know you were always one of my favorites. But, alas.” Chuck wanders over to the window set into the wall of the staircase landing, looking out over the rose garden where, presumably, Dean’s body continues to lie, cold and still. 

“I don’t understand,” Castiel grunts. “I _looked_ for you. I had the amulet in your presence—how?” 

“Oh that thing?” Chuck replies absently, still focused on the outdoors. “I turned it off. Couldn’t have just anyone outing me to the world. Do you _know_ what going to the grocery store would be like if everyone could see me? Psh. So much for a ten-minute run to satisfy a frozen pizza craving, am I right?”

“I’m almost certain you are not, but to be fair, there haven’t been any grocery stores for years,” Castiel replies, slowly getting to his feet and almost surprised when his legs don’t give out under him. 

“In this realm, maybe,” Chuck says with a shrug, finally turning back to face him. He looks… utterly _normal._ Like the Chuck that Castiel sees eating slop in the mess hall every day, the one who complains _endlessly_ about using leaves as toilet paper and doesn’t go on missions because he’s afraid to get his hands dirty. Literally, he has a thing about soap. On the one hand, it seems impossible that this is _God, the_ God. On the other, it makes perfect sense. 

While Castiel’s observing, Chuck continues to talk. “That actually brings me back to why I’m here,” he says. “It’s time for me to move on, Castiel. This world,” he gestures around him. “It’s a failure. A _draft._ I think I’ve taken all that I can from it, learned from my mistakes, so to speak. It’s time for me to move on. Hey, maybe I’ll go with that other Dean that showed up here, he seemed like a glutton for punishment, whaddaya think?” 

Castiel raises his eyebrows and continues staring at Chuck without reply, but Chuck doesn’t seem to mind. “I mean, we were _close,_ here. Got your Dean to be willing to kill Sam and this Sam messed up enough that he let Lucifer in, who ultimately killed Dean.” Chuck pauses and scratches his chin. “It’s kind of cliché, though. Isn’t it? Not to mention, unsatisfying. I mean, that wasn’t _really_ Sam. Real Sam is still in there, somewhere, under all that Lucifer. And now Dean is dead, so he can’t kill him. The poetry of Sam dying from guilt is interesting, but eh… Not my original vision.” Chuck shakes a finger at Castiel. “Never give up on realizing your visions, Cas. Even if it takes a few drafts.” 

When Chuck’s words finally start to click together in Castiel’s head, the fury that bubbles up inside of him is unparalleled. “You…You speak like this is nothing more than a _dress rehearsal,”_ he spits. “A _game._ These are people’s lives you are talking about, people _you_ created, who _trusted_ you, I—”

“Cas, Cas,” Chuck replies lazily, patronizingly, waving both hands in a “calm down” motion that only makes Castiel seethe more. “Listen, I just stopped by to say, ‘adios’. I like you. I like you and Dean. In fact, I like you so much that I’m gonna leave you alone, let you play out the rest of your story however _you_ see fit.” Chuck motions in the direction of Castiel’s jacket pocket. “You go use that. Take Dean to the survivor’s colony that’s south of here. You know, the one you guys stayed away from so you wouldn’t endanger their people by potentially bringing Lucifer to their doorstep.”

Castiel growls.

“Not enough?” The muscles around Chuck’s mouth work as he taps his fingers against his chin. “Hmm. I mean, any other day, I’d just smite you and forget about it. You know there’s like a thousand other Castiels in a thousand other universes, right? You’re not special.”

“Then why are you _here?_ ” Castiel grits out, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Chuck just shrugs. “You grew on me,” he says simply. “C’mon, Cas. We spent time together these past few years! We were in that orgy that one time. You were good.” 

Fighting down the vomit rising in his throat while half of him wonders exactly how many drugs he’d been _on_ that he doesn’t remember being in an orgy with _Chuck,_ Castiel takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “What is it that you want from me?” 

With a slow nod, Chuck reaches out an arm and crooks his fingers for Castiel to come closer. When he makes it over to the window, Chuck moves his hand to point outside. Down below, Lucifer still strolls the garden, unfazed by whatever went on inside the asylum, and Castiel abruptly realizes Chuck must have kept the Devil from seeing it, from _feeling_ his presence. He’s honestly not sure whether to feel smug or jealous. 

With a soft hum, Chuck elbows Castiel in the ribs and raises his right hand, thumb and middle finger already pressed together. “Don’t say I never gave you anything, Castiel,” Chuck says softly. “Good luck with everything. I truly hope you and Dean write me an ending worth reading. I’ll see you around.” And with that, Chuck snaps his fingers.

Down in the garden, a burst of light accompanied by a puff of white smoke explodes, rising so high that the top of the cloud reaches the level of Castiel’s window. It all happens so fast, Castiel barely gets a chance to turn his head and see it. He thinks that Lucifer screams, but there’s no way to be sure. 

In that one instant, Lucifer is gone, and Sam Winchester is lost forever along with him.

Castiel prays that Chuck’s final gift came with a pardon for Sam’s soul. Not that he can ask, since when he turns his head back to where Chuck was just standing, he’s gone.

This time, Castiel’s pretty sure it’s for good. 

***


	2. Wayward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everything else was only ever a distraction. Only ever a temporary balm to soothe the jagged edges of Castiel’s devastatingly mortal reality, because Dean never wanted him like that. Or at least, Dean never let himself want Castiel like that. The truth is irrelevant, because Dean’s control over his repression is and always has been, absolute._
> 
> _But today is apparently a day of firsts, and Castiel is wholly unprepared for Dean’s arm to snap out and for him to grab the wheel and yank. Thank fuck they’re on a highway, and that this particular highway isn’t crammed to the brim with refuse, forcing Castiel to dodge and swerve abandoned vehicles constantly if he wants to maintain any kind of reasonable speed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have gifted you two chapters to start with :) enjoy!

Maybe in another universe, another world (perhaps the one Chuck is heading for, even), seeing Dean lifeless the way that he is would stop Castiel in his tracks. Even jaded and cynical as he's become, Castiel’s not so far gone that he can’t at least  _ imagine  _ what it would be like if he were here to scoop Dean up, to take him to be burned on a pyre, to lose him forever. But he isn’t, and if the end of the world has taught him anything, it’s practicality. There’s no sense wasting tears and expending energy on sadness when that sadness is based on a temporary illusion. 

There’s also the matter of their safety—while Chuck’s holy demonstration seems to have cleared out the entirety of the asylum and all of Lucifer’s cronies, Castiel hasn’t survived this long by  _ not  _ being skeptical. Remembering how Lucifer was wandering unaware and unaffected by his Father’s presence just outside the building’s walls (pre-obliteration, of course), it feels fairly safe to assume that there is no actual radius on Chuck’s anti-demon blast. Which means that the Croats are still out there, still swarming the city in vast numbers, and they could be here any second. 

It’s doubtful that Dean will be very impressed if Castiel resurrects him just in time to get them both eaten.

As he steps out through the heavy metal door leading from the laundry room in the asylum basement out to the garden, Castiel hesitates. The air out here feels unnaturally still, almost thick, like the calm precipitating a massive storm. There is ivy climbing the wall next to his hand and for one surreal moment, Castiel imagines the ivy twisting off of the wall and grabbing him, tying him down, binding him to this place forever.

But nothing happens, and Castiel’s forced to chalk the sudden feeling of unease up to the  _ thing  _ that was inhabiting this place until just moments ago. A presence like Lucifer’s isn’t so easily wiped. It echoes, almost as if the place itself retains the memory as a message of caution to others.

That, or the party mix is kicking in. 

The rose garden, itself, is otherwise beautiful. Eerily, creepily so, when contrasted against the ruin of the asylum and all the death and destruction surrounding them. Not to mention Dean himself, lying with his eyes closed on a patch of verdant green not nearly as bright as his eyes, looking almost peaceful.  _ It’s a shame,  _ Castiel thinks, that even in death, Dean cannot truly rest. That thought alone could be enough to keep him from bringing Dean back, if Castiel were a less selfish person. But he isn’t, so there’s no use in pretending.

The thorns from a wayward rose stem puncture through Castiel’s jeans, pricking his skin. He barely even notices, doesn’t so much as take the time to adjust his knee against the ground. It’s such a small thing, in the grand scheme of today. In fact, Castiel is relatively sure there’s an open gash on his back, torn right through both of his layers, garnered while fighting a demon wielding a particularly gnarly machete earlier. All of these things, they’re just details, hardly a blip on his radar compared to what is truly important.

When Castiel withdraws the bottled potion from his jacket pocket, it’s heavy in his hand. Much heavier than it weighed while he was carrying it. The purplish-pink liquid swirls inside the container, sparkling and glowing as if it’s alive. Castiel supposes it is, in a way, being  _ life force  _ itself. At least, if Chitaqua’s resident witch didn’t steer them wrong. Castiel knows her info was fourth-hand, at best, something that was more of a rumor and whisper-down-the-lane than anything tried and tested. 

In fact, there is certainly a chance that Castiel will perform this spell and absolutely nothing will happen at all. 

Only one way to find out. He uncorks the bottle and mutters the Latin spell words taught to him by Rosanna before pouring its contents over the outside of Dean’s right thigh. The subdermal sachet, a modified hex bag, is already sewn underneath Dean’s skin and has hopefully begun working its magic long before Castiel’s arrival. However, Rosanna had warned them that if the cause of death was severe enough, the sachet might need some extra help. 

Castiel figures a broken neck probably qualifies.

The previously bottled spell doesn’t drip and wet Dean’s jeans, it glides into the air like a thick fog rolling in across a bay. As Castiel watches, it encircles Dean’s thigh, pulsing and seemingly recognizing what is trapped beneath his skin before spreading and engulfing the entirety of Dean’s body in a purple mist. Absently, it occurs to Castiel to pray, and despite everything, he almost laughs out loud at the thought. 

Before he can, though, the mist abruptly dissolves, disappearing without fanfare into Dean’s skin. Seconds later, a bright purple light bursts forth from his body—out from under his eyelids, his ears, his fingernails, the toes of his boots. All Castiel can do is observe anxiously— _ not anxiously, this will work, there is no alternative— _ until the light fades and all that is left… is Dean.

For a moment, nothing happens. It is the singular longest period of time in the entirety of Castiel’s existence, bar none. And he’s including the time when Michael preached for days to the Host about the innate differences between the Seraph class and the Archangels, as if this were something none of them were familiar with from, oh, say, existing. 

Then Dean gasps, and Castiel comes alive again with him. Dean’s gasp turns into a cough and his legs twitch, knees coming up towards his chest as he tries his best to turn onto his side. Only partly successful, his eyes snap open, pupils constricting in the light as they dart around, unseeing. 

“Shh,” Castiel soothes, scooping Dean up and pulling him to his chest in a way that Dean would never,  _ ever  _ let him do if he had even half of his wits about him.  It’s unusual that Castiel would even try, at least these days, but his own instinctual reactions to seeing Dean  _ alive  _ again betray the internal assertion he’d made about being unbothered. Since he’s no longer denying it, Castiel can also accept that the feeling rolling over him in waves is relief. It’s strange to consider that surviving day-to-day at the end of world may not have killed every impractical, emotional bone in his body after all. 

_ Fascinating.  _ Or, it would be, if every ounce of Castiel’s attention and every fiber of his being weren’t already occupied focusing on other things. 

“Dean, are you tracking?” Castiel asks, taking Dean’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and attempting to force him to make eye contact. Dean resists, because he is  _ Dean,  _ shaking Castiel off before blinking hard and long and then pushing to a sitting position somewhere that is not very nearly in Castiel’s lap. It’s silent for a moment as Dean rubs his hand over his face and through his hair, and then he turns to look over his shoulder with wide eyes.

“Did we win?” 

The voice that comes from Dean’s throat is scratchy, shaky, at best, and Castiel hesitates. Eventually, and probably within the next hour considering what they need to do next, he will have to bring Dean fully up to speed. On everything—from Lucifer combusting, to losing Sam, to fucking  _ Chuck  _ being God, and somehow, that’s not even at the top of the list, which is not something neither of them are ever going to look too closely at, because sanity.

But all of that is complex, and Castiel has no idea how Dean will react to the knowledge that he is alive in a world where his brother is not. Despite everything, Castiel isn’t entirely sure Dean wanted to win today, not if it meant that Sam wasn’t coming home too. Sure, Dean knew that wasn’t on the table, has known it for years. But coming to terms with a necessary evil and actually living with the aftermath are not the same thing—ask him, Castiel knows. 

So for now… “Yes,” he says solemnly, without elaborating. “We won.” 

Castiel hasn’t seen Dean Winchester cry in years. He doesn’t know how to feel about it, but a not small part of him is jealous. That Dean  _ can  _ cry, that even now, he still has something worth losing, someone important enough to cry over. And also, in the darkest corner of his mind, that the person Dean cares enough to cry over losing is not him. 

He finally shuffles off of the stinging stem from the rose bush and places a careful hand in the middle of Dean’s back. “I am sorry about Sam, Dean,” Castiel says, his tone weighty and measured, the way empathy for human grief is supposed to appear. It’s not that he, himself, doesn’t care about Sam—it’s just that he buried Sam long ago, the moment the younger Winchester said  _ yes.  _ Knowing Lucifer the way that Castiel does, he’s always been aware that there was no coming back from being his vessel. But that knowledge, that  _ belief, _ was never something he forced upon Dean. No, Dean had to cope and grieve in his own time. 

“You dumbass,” Dean replies, sniffling as he drags the back of his sleeve across his nose. Dean’s still facing away from him, but when he turns, Castiel is surprised. The skin around Dean’s eyes is reddened, as expected, but the corners are crinkled and his lips are slightly upturned. There is something in his eyes that Castiel hasn’t seen in  _ much  _ longer than the tears. 

_ Hope. Relief.  _ Perhaps even the slightest hint of happiness? 

It’s jarring, and Castiel has to work to not look shocked or to flinch away. Death, destruction, and a fallen archangel intent on dragging disease and disaster up from the very depths of Hell through the entirety of the moral coil,  _ those  _ things Castiel can handle. A Dean who breaks down and shows emotion, on the other hand, this may take some getting used to. 

_ I like past you.  _

Castiel suddenly flashes back on his own words, said only the day prior, though they feel like a lifetime ago now. Dean’s angry, hurt reaction to them abruptly makes a lot more sense, because  _ this  _ Dean—this Dean  _ reminds  _ Castiel of exactly that. A  _ past  _ Dean that he had assumed was long gone. Perhaps he was wrong. 

“The others?” Dean is asking, and Castiel brings himself back, forces his brain to focus as he shakes his head regretfully. Dean purses his lips but just nods; this was expected.  _ Casualties of war,  _ Dean had said coldly, when Castiel dared to bring it up once they were alone the night before. With Lucifer dead, he can’t help hoping that these people will be the last such casualties Dean will ever have to stack upon his shoulders. 

“Come,” Castiel tells him, getting to his feet and holding out a hand to help Dean up, too. He checks his rifle and gets it into ready position against his chest before they start towards the waiting Jeep. “We need to move, we’ve been here too long.”

As they walk, Dean’s eyes scan the surrounding territory like they always do, checking for threats, always on guard. Unlike the  _ usual  _ they’ve both become accustomed to, though, nothing happens. It’s almost  _ more  _ unnerving that way, like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, since drop it inevitably does. 

But their luck holds. As they race the Jeep as fast as it will go away from Detroit and back towards Camp Chitaqua, nothing stops them. There are no crowds of Croats, no monsters, no demons, nothing. It’s as if Lucifer’s apparent defeat caused them all to simply disappear along with him. Perhaps that was another gift from Chuck, though for whatever reason, Castiel doubts it. It seems more likely that it is simply a side effect of Lucifer’s power over this plane releasing. If he had to guess, Castiel suspects that there are millions of Croats who simply dropped dead where they stood. 

So much for curing the virus. On the other hand, no one ever really thought they could. The existence of Croatoan and the people lost to it are just another thing Castiel came to terms with long ago, and in this, at least, he believes Dean has too. 

The drive back to Chitaqua is long, and the survivor’s colony is still a good ways beyond that. Castiel waits until Dean’s face loses the temporary shine it took on in the garden to speak, because he can’t bear to be the one responsible. It doesn’t take long. Maybe an hour outside of Detroit, Castiel takes his eyes off of the road long enough to register that Dean’s back to looking like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his back. The fact that Dean didn’t demand to drive should probably have clued him in sooner that it was coming, but maybe Castiel’s just thrown by seeing a glimpse—narrow as it was—into the old Dean. 

“Tell me,” Dean demands when they’re just north of Chicago, Lake Michigan looking barren and grey out the right side of the vehicle. Dean’s eyes don’t ever leave the waves. “All of it, don’t skimp on the details.” 

Castiel obliges, mostly because he was going to anyway, but also because Dean deserves to know, and if it makes him feel better to order Castiel around, well. That’s nothing new under the sun. So he describes the whole damn ordeal in excruciating detail, up to and including the fifty-four-point-two degree temperature inside the asylum (fifty-five-point-three on the upper floors, near the windows). The picture he paints is painstaking and objective, perfect in its accuracy, because that’s what Dean needs. Hell, it’s what Castiel needs, honestly (there’s no room for honesty here). He wouldn’t be able to recount it any other way. Not yet.

But remove the emotion of living through seeing the fucking face of God, and Castiel is good. Delete the stress of watching the people he’s eaten stale Wheaties with side-by-side in the mess hall being slaughtered like lambs, yeah, he can do this. Cut out the aching maw in his chest that collapsed in on itself like a dying star when he watched his  _ brother— _ inside of a man who might as well have been—snap the neck of the only man he’s ever loved. The man he Fell for, would fall for again, every fucking day from now until the end of time, world without end, Amen. 

_ Yeah. Castiel’s fine, he’s got this.  _

Somewhere around reciting the hex bag activation spell itself back for dramatic effect, Castiel realizes that Dean has not said  _ one  _ goddamn word. The entire story could have been told in under ten minutes (save for the inevitable existential questions and general astonishment surrounding the Chuck-slash-God situation), but Castiel has somehow managed to draw it out for over two hours. That’s  _ one hundred and twenty (two and a half, to be exact)  _ minutes where Dean has done  _ nothing  _ but stare out the window and accept that Castiel is going to bore him to death with details literally  _ no  _ one needs, never mind him. 

“Is this going to be a long coma?” Castiel asks, because no one’s ever accused him of knowing when to utilize tact, and somehow, he doesn’t think Dean would appreciate him trying to start now. “Will I have to force-feed you, bathe you? That could be interesting.” Castiel doesn’t think twice about skirting the line of inappropriateness while bantering with Dean, his fearless leader has certainly never risen to the bait before. 

Well, unless he’s counting that one time he invited Dean to an orgy and Dean  _ actually  _ showed up. If one thinks that could be construed as  _ rising to the bait  _ (and Castiel does ) _.  _ Although, two years later, Castiel isn’t entirely sure what to make of that night, or the fact that (despite the various hallucinogens and opiates he had on board at the time) he’s still relatively certain of what he saw. If his memory serves him (and, still an angel, at least in the ways that matter, so it does), Dean accepted a blowjob from the first woman-shaped body that offered and then spent the whole of the experience glaring at Castiel from across the room while Castiel himself was touching and being touched by Chuck-knows-who, certainly no one memorable. 

If his behavior since is any indication, Dean probably assumes to this day that Castiel was too out of his gourd to notice him at all. But if there’s been one constant in Castiel’s painfully long angelic existence and miserably short human one, it’s that Dean Winchester has always been the center of it. There has never been  _ one  _ single moment since Castiel touched the Righteous Man’s ragged, twisted, battered but still  _ brilliant  _ soul in Hell that he could even be in the same room as Dean and not have every ounce, every  _ fiber  _ of his being perfectly attuned to him, and only him. 

Everything else was only ever a distraction. Only ever a temporary balm to soothe the jagged edges of Castiel’s devastatingly mortal reality, because Dean  _ never  _ wanted him like that. Or at least, Dean never  _ let himself  _ want Castiel like that. The truth is irrelevant, because Dean’s control over his repression is and always has been, absolute.

But today is apparently a day of firsts, and Castiel is wholly unprepared for Dean’s arm to snap out and for him to grab the wheel and  _ yank.  _ Thank  _ fuck  _ they’re on a highway, and that this particular highway isn’t crammed to the brim with refuse, forcing Castiel to dodge and swerve around abandoned vehicles constantly if he wants to maintain any kind of reasonable speed. 

“Hey,” he complains, comparatively dully to the violence of the rocking car as Dean takes their lives into his hands. Castiel just throws his own into the air and slams a foot down on the brake, sending Dean flying forward into the dash, since he isn’t wearing his seatbelt. Serves him right. Dean wouldn’t last five fucking minutes in  _ Zombieland,  _ the liar _. _ “You survived the Apocalypse, the rise and fall of the uncaged Morningstar Himself, for a half-inch pane of glass to nearly bring your life to a close,” he says pointedly, eyebrows raised and index finger flicking his own chest restraint with gusto. 

True to form, Dean just snorts and rolls his eyes before throwing the Jeep into park and then equally pointedly reaching over to click the button on Castiel’s buckle. He turns to face Castiel, pulling a leg up onto the seat (and  _ that  _ cannot be comfortable, he’s still wearing his thigh holster). Under different circumstances, Castiel could really enjoy seeing that thigh holster on Dean, but that’s some kind of pipe dream he’s long since let go. 

Except, as previously stated, today is a day of firsts, and Dean’s eyes are boring into him in a way that Castiel hasn’t seen since  _ that night,  _ at the orgy he’s not supposed to remember. There probably isn’t anything left in this world that can stun Castiel into silence, not anymore, but this comes close. At the very least, he’s smart enough to know when to shut up, anyway. 

Licking his bottom lip, tongue flicking out pink and plush and  _ Heavens to Chuck.  _ Dean really is the fucking worst, has the  _ worst  _ goddamn timing, when Castiel’s party mix boost is fading, his adrenaline from the fight is crashing, and his need for a  _ fucking distraction _ is quickly approaching an all-time high. Whatever Dean has to say, it better be good, or Castiel might make him wait in the car while he takes a minute to jerk off on the side of the road. That  _ also  _ would serve him right, for looking the way that he does and for refusing to just let himself be loved,  _ fuck.  _

“Anything change for you? Back there?” Dean’s question is a worse non-sequitur than what goes through Castiel’s head at the most inane of times, and that’s saying something. So Castiel just purses his lips and tilts his head,  _ what the fuck?  _ Dean sighs. “Don’t…” He trails off and growls, scraping a hand through his hair and then ripping it away, apparently disgusted with himself. Castiel raises an eyebrow, it’s an interesting show, but they need to get moving. “You,” Dean repeats, like that's supposed to mean something. “After… Chuck— _ God— _ and all that. Watching… everything.” 

“Ah, yes,” Castiel tells him. “Thank you, that clears everything up.” 

“Fuck you,” Dean snips, but his tone is exhausted, not heated. “I wanna know if you feel the same way you felt before everything went down today.” He swallows but doesn’t avert his eyes, which for Dean is basically as  _ lay it all out there  _ as it gets, fuck Castiel’s entire life. “About me,” he clarifies, as if that’s necessary, and Castiel  _ would  _ laugh, he would, but he’s starting to suspect that Chuck’s finger snap actually ended his life and that he’s in Heaven. Or possibly Hell, depending on how this apparent construct of Dean reacts to what he says next.

Before answering, Castiel reaches fingers behind his own neck and through torn clothing to dig them into the wound on his upper back. When he pulls them out, he finds them bloody, and his shoulder is smarting like crazy. At least that settles that—he’s either alive or in Hell, but he’s pretty sure you don’t bring your earthly injuries down there when you die. No, that wouldn’t be well-received at all. Some of the Pit Masters would take offense to it, even. 

So he’s alive, that’s interesting.

When Castiel looks up, Dean’s expression has shifted to the  _ much  _ more familiar,  _ are you fuckin’ crazy, Cas?  _ one that Castiel is  _ very  _ used to seeing on him, and that, at least, is reassuring. He wipes his fingers on his jeans, leaving tacky red streaks behind on fabric that doesn’t quite clean his skin. “Do I feel the same… about you? That’s your question?” 

The set of Dean’s mouth stretches into a thin line, like he’s anticipating some sort of worst-case scenario, like he’s already psyched himself up for it. With logic like that, Castiel wonders how Dean’s even managed to make it through his day-to-day life without tying his own shoelaces together. 

“You are absolutely impossible,” Castiel says with a sigh and a shake of his head. “If you’re fishing, Dean, we don’t have time for it. The people we left behind at Chitaqua will have already moved on to the survivor’s colony. If we don’t get moving soon, we’ll have to sleep there tonight, and there are no guarantees they even left the warding up.”

“This is important,” Dean insists, like Castiel hasn’t been waiting his entire goddamn life for this moment. Like he doesn’t fucking  _ know.  _ What is he even doing? Who cares where they sleep? Not him, if this conversation is actually fucking happening and he’s not, in reality, unconscious in that asylum, having some sort of last-hurrah fever dream before he kicks the bucket. Croats? What Croats? Spidey senses suggest they’re all dead, anyway. 

“Nothing could or ever will change the way that I feel about you, Dean.” Castiel turns his head to look at Dean straight-on, dropping it back against the headrest as he stares openly. Gawks, really, and if Dean is serious, he’s going to have to get used to that. Dean truly is beautiful, even if it’s the freckles dusted across his nose Castiel is admiring these days, and not the glow of his truly exceptional soul. “I love you without reservation or parallel, in every way and form the human language has to describe love, any kind of love. Whatever it is that you want from me, you should know that it’s already yours, you need only ask.” There’s a weighty silence between them as Dean stares back, and Castiel cracks a smile. “Are you going to ask, Dean?” 

Words are overrated. 

Castiel barely has time to suck in a breath as Dean dives forward, cupping his face on both sides and crashing their mouths together. There’s almost nothing kiss-like about it, not at first, one long press of two sets of desperate lips holding on,  _ holding on,  _ for the very first time. Dean’s breathing into his mouth and Castiel’s too— _ something— _ to know what to do with his hands besides fist them in Dean’s ratty-ass t-shirt, but it’s all the things Castiel’s ever dreamed about at night when it’s quiet and he’s alone. 

Eventually, Dean’s mouth closes around his top lip and Castiel can’t help but moan in relief, his hands finally releasing fabric to drift up and slide around the back of Dean’s neck. “You  _ know,  _ right?” Dean pants against his face, barely pulling away enough to talk, and Castiel won’t let him, won’t stop kissing him, will never stop kissing him again. “You—I’ve loved you,” he whispers, and his eyes are closed so Castiel kisses those too, works his way back down Dean’s cheek and captures his stupid mouth since Dean won’t fucking shut  _ up.  _

“I just—I couldn’t,” he persists, even when Castiel’s tongue sweeps between his lips and he shudders, the  _ good  _ kind, nearly melting into Castiel’s arms. “It’s over now,” Dean murmurs, half-tearful when Castiel drags his mouth over the corner of Dean’s, down to bite at his jaw, hard enough to leave a mark. “It’s over,” Dean repeats, because that’s clearly supposed to explain something, and Castiel supposes that it does. Dean is free and so is he, but those things are semantics because  _ Dean, Dean wants him back.  _

“Shut up,” he growls before fisting both hands in Dean’s hair and tipping his head to the side for the perfect angle push his mouth open and  _ kiss, and touch, and— _

“Not here,” Dean manages, wrenching away just far enough for Castiel to see what he’s done to him and yeah, that doesn’t help matters. Parted, spit-shiny lips and glassy green eyes and  _ Castiel has fucking waited, dreamed,  _ came in his own goddamn hand so many nights imagining seeing that look directed his way, and Dean is worried about  _ where?!  _

They are two very different people, and Dean is still the  _ worst. _

“Fine,” he says, dragging Dean in for one additional fierce, more violent than romantic, holdover kiss. Their lips smack when they part and Castiel wonders how fast one would have to drive a Jeep to overheat its engine in the dead of November. Because he doesn’t do things by halves, Castiel actually does the math and is satisfied with the results. “Seatbelt this time,” he tells Dean, as he puts the car into drive and floors it.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a secret cameo in here, can you figure out who it is?


	3. Chitaqua

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s no hesitation in Dean’s decision to comply with Castiel’s request, just warmth and a hand slid over his jaw, the softness of Dean’s mouth, and the wonderfully hard planes of his body. In that moment, Castiel knows for sure that there will never be devotion like this, never be anything in all of Creation that makes him burn the way he does for Dean. Forget taking a bullet, Castiel would raze the entirety of the planet for the man in his arms, no questions asked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thar be schmoop ahead  
> vague, brief mentions of past dean/other and cas/other

Castiel’s cabin has always been somewhat of a point of contention in Chitaqua. After all, it’s one of the nicest, the largest, the closest to their weapons stockpile _and_ the mess, and its plumbing is at least semi-reliable, which is an unquestionable upgrade from the “largely non-functional” situation the rest of the camp dealt with. 

More importantly, Castiel did absolutely nothing to deserve such accommodations.

Except that the cabin was also _Dean’s,_ once upon a time, because leader, and everything that comes with that. This was before Castiel had Fallen, or perhaps before he knew that he was Falling. In those days, he spent plenty of time in the cabin with Dean, but he hadn’t needed a particular place to rest his head and keep the meager few possessions he’d inevitably gather along the way, like humans do. 

Mostly, Castiel would leave Dean to whatever Dean did when he wasn’t ruthlessly tracking both Lucifer and the Colt or planning supply runs and other various survival-related missions. Sleeping with whatever woman in the camp didn’t hate him that week, for instance. It hadn’t bothered Castiel then because he was still an angel, and the feelings that led him to Fall (for Dean) had no context with which to create jealousy.

After all, angels were not created to feel such things.

So, he would wander the camp through the dark hours; keeping watch, assisting where he was able to with small things, such as healing minor injuries and illnesses of camp members, if his already-fluctuating powers allowed for it that particular day. Many nights, he would just sit on the roof of one of the cabins, looking at the stars and asking his Father why he had forsaken them all. That seems especially ludicrous now, since his Father was apparently three cabins over, complaining about the lack of toilet paper the entire time. 

And then Castiel had broken his foot on a hunt, and been forced to face reality. Not only that he had apparently gone mortal when he wasn’t even paying attention, but the impact of everything that came along with that. With no other available space in the camp, Dean hadn’t even hesitated, moving Castiel into his cabin, into his _bed_ without a second thought. Absolutely nothing changed between them in those four ensuing, brutal months while Castiel was laid up. Well, except that Castiel developed a taste for hedonism and Dean brick-and-mortared the boundaries in his mind that were set up specifically to keep Castiel at arm’s length. 

Sleeping next to Dean while feeling the full spectrum of human emotions for the very first time was a kind of exquisite torture unlike any Castiel has ever seen replicated in all of Heaven and Hell’s various chambers of torment. Neither angels nor demons are that creative, nor do they possess the frame of reference for such a thing. Though, if they ever figure it out… 

Regardless, when Dean started spending less time in their cabin—in their painfully platonic _bed—_ it had been more of a relief than anything else. And when Dean finally moved out (he’d been quietly renovating another cabin since perhaps two months into Castiel’s injury), it hurt, but Castiel also thought it was probably for the best.

Anyway, nothing _had_ really changed between them, and Dean had been back to visit Castiel’s cabin frequently, orgy night aside. When Cas wasn’t high off of his ass, they’d shared meals and discussed missions and if Castiel closed one eye and squinted, he could almost pretend that they were _fine._ But having been an angel before and privy to the entirety of Dean’s mind, and now operating as a _human_ with all the rights and “privileges” thereunto conveyed (read: emotions), there were certain things Castiel _now_ understood very clearly and that Dean very clearly wished he didn’t. 

And thus, Castiel had given up hoping Dean would ever come around (or come to terms with his feelings), and thrown himself headlong into sleeping with very literally _anyone_ who would have him, all of them at the same time, if possible. 

So standing in the kitchen-slash-living-room they used to share as _just friends_ with Dean no longer eyeballing the porch door like it’s a closing watertight bulkhead on the sinking Titanic is something that takes Castiel a minute to adjust to. History repeats, that’s not a question. As far as Castiel is concerned, the only question is _when,_ but Dean doesn’t run.

Something about him is different—softer, more relaxed, and against his better judgment, Castiel decides to allow himself to hope. It doesn’t help that Dean’s hands have been on him for the past half-hour, carefully stitching back together the lacerated skin over Castiel’s shoulder blade. Even now, when the first-aid kit has been packed up and Castiel’s clothes are back on, jacket and all, Dean is looking at him like he wishes they weren’t.

“It’s getting dark,” Castiel murmurs, pulling the battered curtain aside to glance out the window, despite the fact that they were just outside not two minutes prior disposing of the medical waste, because that is definitely an activity that requires two. “Do you need to go over to your cabin for anything?” 

With a shrug, Dean wanders closer, wrapping a hand around Castiel’s waist, which is extremely distracting, to say the least. “Sent a box of stuff on with Chuck, just in case.” Dean pauses and his face creases. “Although, now I’m thinking I should probably look into that, considering. I’ll check in the morning.”

“In the morning?” Castiel asks faintly. “Shouldn’t we—”

“The wards are still up, right? You felt them?” Castiel nods as Dean steps closer, nosing at the space below his ear. “Safe as it's ever been in Chitaqua, then. Safe as any place is going to be. Safer than out on the open road in the dark.” His lips are soft and warm when they press against Castiel’s skin, and this form of “discussion” is extremely unfair. In related news, Castiel’s only slightly disturbed at how much he’s enjoying being blatantly manipulated. 

“There’s no patrol,” Castiel argues, wondering even as the words leave his lips what the hell he’s doing. “They’ve all gone on to New Washington.”

“True,” Dean agrees, pulling back slightly with his fingers tangling in the front of Castiel’s canvas jacket, which, since when are jackets foreplay? Since now, apparently, and Castiel is fine with that. “And I doubt New Wash put them on duty tonight, much as they might like us. _And_ all of our people probably think we’re both dead _and_ relayed that to Washington’s leadership. So, is the middle of the night _really_ the best time to show up at their gates, asking to be let in? Those paranoid motherfuckers’ll probably shoot us on sight, if not because they think we’re possessed, then just because it’s fun and they can.” 

Castiel can’t argue with that logic, doesn’t really want to. Not when Dean’s still-armed body is pressed up against his side like that’s a perfectly natural thing for them to do, and Castiel _really_ needs to look into why the thigh holster affects his libido the way that it does, and only when it’s on Dean. Currently, Castiel is torn between ripping it off permanently or just long enough to get Dean’s pants down. 

Which is why he can’t remotely understand why the next thing out of his own mouth is, “Dean… I’m not sure that we should have sex tonight,” but Dean’s entirely unused to be rejected, and he just laughs.  
  
“What, after all this time, suddenly you don’t want to?” 

“After all this time, suddenly _you_ want to?” Castiel shoots back and Dean pulls away, stung. “I’m sorry,” he says immediately, sighing and running a hand through his hair. “Dean, I’m not—I understand. I’ve always understood.”

The muscles in Dean’s throat contract when he swallows and Castiel’s eyes track the motion, because this is still _Dean,_ and Castiel is still all in, will wind up giving Dean whatever he asks for anyway. It’s not as if that’s a new concept for him. 

“No,” Dean says slowly, nodding like he’s agreeing with himself. “No, you’re right. I tabled all of this,” he gestures between himself and Castiel, “because I had to, but I can’t expect to one-eighty now, turn you off and on like a light switch.” He definitely _can,_ but that’s beside the point and Castiel’s not sure it would be helpful to mention just now. “I’ll wait,” Dean offers. “I can wait. S’only fair…you waited for me.” His eyes are shining when he looks up from under his lashes, and Castiel can’t _fucking_ believe Dean thinks this is about not _wanting_ him. 

Still, Dean hasn’t said this many thoughtful words to him since before his brother left and suddenly, because of that, Castiel remembers why he fell for Dean in the first place. The _real_ Dean, not the one who made himself hard and violent, fearless and cold, all in the name of saving the world (and freeing Sam). 

Ironically, it seems like Dean picks that exact moment to remember who he was too, and just like that, Castiel’s priorities shift. Or, more accurately, he’s reminded why he hit pause, to begin with, and it wasn’t for lack of interest in getting naked with Dean.

“I don’t think you’re entirely aware of how much restraint it’s taking for me to resist stripping you bare and playing out every single dirty and depraved fantasy I’ve ever harbored about you,” Castiel says. In response, Dean’s bottom lip gets pulled in between his teeth, and that is not helping, not at all. “But this—what we both went through today—I don’t have any desire to _use_ you to escape it. That’s not…” Castiel clears his throat. “May I be blunt?” 

Raising his eyebrow, Dean smirks, though it’s a little sad around the edges. “Since when did you start asking permission?” 

Without rising to the bait, Castiel spreads his hands and then drops them. “I can’t love you by halves, Dean,” he says. “You kept me at arm’s length because you had to, and you do not need to justify that. But likewise, I hope you understand that the things I did—the drugs, the casual sex—were out of necessity, too. You are the consummate center of my universe, and you cannot offer yourself completely to me, expecting to then take it away. If you’re simply looking for a bit of cold comfort or a convenient way to forget the things that happened in Detroit, I’d rather take my chances with the New Washington guards. I’ll drive you there now and get you whatever you need to cope. But if we…” Castiel pauses, gathering himself. “There is no going back from this, for me. So I would simply ask that you be sure because if we stop now, I think I could probably still survive it.”

For a minute, Dean just blinks wide eyes at him and Castiel gets the sinking feeling that he’s really done it this time. What kind of idiot turns down even one night with love of his life, the man of his dreams, over _principles_ and some silly thing like self-respect? Self-preservation is overrated, Castiel’s definitely sure of that now, and perhaps he can still convince Dean he’s an idiot, before—

“God, you are so stupid, Cas,” Dean mutters with a smile, before charging forward and sliding their mouths together once again. “You’re so—” _kiss_ “—goddamn—” _kiss_ “— _stupid,” kiss,_ followed by Dean’s hands shaking Castiel’s head where they’re gripping the sides of his face. “Do you know that?” 

“Yes,” Castiel replies solemnly, because when it comes to Dean and his feelings thereof, truer words have never been spoken. “I have heard love does that.” 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes into the space between their faces, scant as it is. He closes his eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly, and Castiel watches his face change in fascination. “I’m stupid for you too, you asshole.” This time, when Castiel leans forward to kiss him, it’s Dean that throws the brakes. “Thing is,” Dean says softly, still clutching Castiel’s head and not showing any signs of letting go any time soon. “The comfort thing. That ain’t _all_ I was lookin’ for, but.” His eyes open, and they’re shining, and Castiel feels the tremor in Dean’s arms before he manages to put two and two together.

“I’ve got you,” he rushes to say as Dean collapses forward into him, wrapping arms around his shoulders as the first tears fall onto Castiel’s neck. “I’ve got you.” 

Really, Castiel should have seen this coming. It’s so obvious and inevitable in retrospect, and here Castiel was, worrying about himself. Mentally, he’s self-flagellating, even as he steers Dean towards the bed and sits him down. _Selfish,_ Castiel thinks silently as he shushes Dean out loud and soothes a hand down his back. There was _so_ much more than _Castiel_ that Dean felt the need to repress over the past few years, and if there’s one tiny crack, it’s _all_ coming out, of course it is.

In the most un-Dean-like fashion Castiel can imagine, Dean continues to cry quietly as Castiel quickly and methodically disarms and strips them both. Once the weapons are lined up on the nightstands and tucked under pillows the way Castiel knows they both sleep (because it’s Dean who taught him to be that way), he slides into bed and pulls Dean down. They’re both still in boxers, a state Castiel’s seen Dean in many times (and vice versa) but even back when they shared a bed previously, Dean always slept clothed. 

Castiel didn’t, but Castiel was also surly and angry, often intentionally provocative and frequently a dick about his newly-discovered human wants and needs. In retrospect, it’s no wonder Dean moved out. 

Point being, this is uncharted territory. 

Seeing each other in various states of undress is one thing, and a given in a living situation like Chitaqua’s. Even intimate touching, as is so often necessary when hunting at the end of the world, was barely something to blink at. The mechanics of visualizing and getting hands-on with someone’s body to evaluate and repair injuries—or just to _move_ someone slightly to the left, because close quarters are an inescapable reality—provided no context, no desensitization for what’s happening now. 

Hell, Castiel _rebuilt_ Dean’s physical body from scratch, put it back together from desiccated bone and ash before popping his soul back inside like the toy surprise. If asked, even today, he could map every capillary, every nerve tract, joint, lymph node, and alveoli. He could pick Dean’s pinkie toe out of a line-up of thousands with barely a token glance, recognize the curve of his shoulder from miles away, trace the clusters of freckles on his skin into their corresponding star constellations without even trying.

But this.

Castiel has never known Dean’s body like _this._ Has never had any idea what it’s like to be the person Dean takes comfort in, and circumstances aside, he’s having trouble finding it to be anything but sublime. Perhaps he should feel somewhat guilty about that, but Castiel sees no reason he can’t comfort Dean _and_ be happy he’s finally allowed to. After all, he’s only human, _insert ironic pun here._

Despite appearances and his sordid reputation, Castiel’s spent nearly every night that he slept in this bed (besides those he spent with Dean) alone. No matter how many partners and how often he met with them, almost no one was invited to _stay._ There was no exaggeration in what Castiel had told Dean earlier—everything he did in the name of hedonistic debauchery was a distraction, nothing more. Having someone sleeping next to him in the bed he wished he was sharing with Dean would have been anything but. 

No, the nights were Castiel’s time to pretend, to dream, to wish. In the dark, in the cold, lonely, endless dark, he’d imagined this moment _so many_ goddamn times _._ The day when Dean would show up at his cabin door, falling all over himself to apologize, to declare his love for Castiel, to admit that he didn’t actually want to be alone, that he _needs_ Castiel the same way Castiel has always needed him. And if most of those fantasies ended with picturing Dean pressed against him the way he is now (albeit with fewer tears and less snot on his face), and Castiel’s hands down his boxers instead, well, he wasn’t ashamed of that either.

He never really thought it would happen, though. The End of the world—Croatoan, Lucifer, the virtual collapse of civilization and government _plus_ monsters—it was one thing after another after another. As far as Castiel had been concerned, it would never end. Dean would always have another mission to rush off to, another reason to keep himself closed off and cold. Even now, faced with the incontrovertible physical proof that his previous theory was _not_ true, Castiel’s not entirely sure he believes it. 

But Dean’s body leaches heat where it's pressed shoulder to thigh against his own. His skin is smooth and supple everywhere Castiel can reach, more so than he would have expected, though it’s hardly surprising that Dean’s perfection has persisted well into the definitive Apocalypse, capital A. Defying expectations is what Dean _does,_ of course, that would extend to things like fucking _skincare,_ because reasons. Castiel makes a mental note to not be surprised when Dean also wakes up tomorrow with minty-fresh breath just to spite him. 

He’d be lying, though, if Castiel said it was a hardship to snuggle the apparent Adonis whose physical presence so far exceeds his imagination’s rendering that it’s become a bit surreal. Running soothing hands over Dean’s strong biceps, the flexing striations in his back, the lean muscles in the thigh that’s slung over Castiel’s own, the totality of Dean up close is overwhelming. It’s so much worse because of how pliant and needy Dean is right now, the opposite of everything Castiel’s known him to be since the day they met in that barn in Pontiac. 

Dean’s breath is hot on his neck, faster than usual but calming and becoming measured as time goes on, his sniffling petering out but his grip no less tight around Castiel’s torso. Still as he is, Castiel can feel Dean’s lashes tickling his skin and it nearly destroys him to even peripherally contemplate the level of vulnerability and trust Dean is showing him. In that instant (not that he hasn’t already), he forgives Dean every single one of his trespasses, anything he might have clung to with resentment to use as a weapon on some unspecified day in the future when Dean has pushed him beyond where any reasonable person would deem unjustifiable homicide. 

Considering Dean’s general temperament and Castiel’s inability to tolerate anything remotely uncomfortable or annoying while sober, that will probably happen sooner rather than later. If not, then preferably when they are old and wrinkled and with many fat grandchildren except no, they’re both still men and science is unlikely to overcome apocalyptic devastation to advance far enough to allow that in their lifetimes. At least, not while either of them are remotely within childbearing years and _what was he doing, again?_

Oh right, Dean. 

Fishing around in the bedside table drawer, Castiel comes up with a strip of fabric torn from a dearly departed t-shirt. It was Dean’s once upon a time, but became relegated to cleaning rags the day after Dean got stabbed in it and had the nerve to almost die. Dean, if he’d had his way, probably would have just scrubbed most of the blood out and then worn it again and again until it disintegrated on his body, because that is Dean’s opinion of clothing in general. So Castiel stole it, snatched it right off of the counter in the infirmary, unwilling to run the risk of seeing it on Dean ever again. 

Triggering flashbacks and all that, not helped by the fact that he was actually tripping at the time Dean was stabbed. Alright, so it’s possible there was _some_ guilt factoring there, too, not the point. Awkwardly, Castiel pushes the cloth into Dean’s face and instructs him to, “Blow,” again, not the way he imagined his first time saying that to Dean going, but here they are. 

“Shit,” Dean has the nerve to say, once he’s appropriated the cloth for himself and finished wiping his face clean (unnecessary, Castiel had it under control). Unaware of or possibly ignoring Castiel’s glare of disproval, Dean tosses the dirty rag over his shoulder, knowing full well they will leave here tomorrow without ever bothering to pick it up. “You weren’t kidding before, because holding someone’s snot rag? _That_ is love,” Dean jokes weakly, his cheeks coloring either from the crying itself or the related embarrassment. 

“You’re the expert on human behavior,” Castiel says lightly, patting Dean’s head in a way that any other time, would have earned him some sort of retaliatory jab back, likely in the ribs. Not today. Today, Dean just sniffs, and snuggles closer. _Snuggles. Closer._ If adult changelings were a thing, Castiel might be concerned, because no way was this the man who, not twenty-four hours prior, blithely declared his intentions to lead the majority of his Lieutenants into an obvious trap-slash-suicide mission on the _off-chance_ he _might_ get _a_ shot at the Devil with an untested weapon that quite possibly wouldn’t even work. 

Time changes people, sure, Castiel’s not unfamiliar with that saying, except he was always led to believe that something like this would take _more_ of it than twenty-four hours. 

Vaguely aware that this is possibly the worst moment in all the multi-millennia of moments he has existed through to let himself be sucked into his own head and lost in his thoughts, Castiel blinks slowly. He scoots down and onto his side in the bed so that he and Dean are face-to-face, chest-to-chest, circling his arms around Dean’s torso in a mirror of the way Dean’s already lying. Somehow, Castiel is _still_ unprepared for what that will be like, sharply inhaling at the sight of Dean’s stunningly clear green eyes looking straight back and into his own soul (presuming he has one— _not the time, focus_ ). 

“I would very much like to kiss you,” he says bluntly. 

A genuine smile flickers across Dean’s face and he ducks his head somewhat shyly which is, again, extremely bizarre for Castiel to have to just _lay there_ and accept. “Thought you didn’t want to—”

“I never said that,” Castiel corrects quickly, relieved that he’s finally been given the opportunity to do so. “Real comfort. The kind where you don’t go scrounging around for your jeans and the flashlight so you can walk back to your own cabin after. Where we—”

“Hold hands and ride off into the sunset together? Not over a cliff this time, since the world doesn’t seem to be actively ending right now, though, give it a few hours. This _is_ us, after all.” Dean raises his eyebrows and, _point._ If anything out there is more likely to tempt fate into raining down catastrophe _just because_ than a Winchester trying to sneak a happy ending, Castiel has yet to discover it. 

“We’ll worry about that if and when it happens. Together, no cliffs, irrespective of apocalypses. Kiss me.” 

There’s no hesitation in Dean’s decision to comply with Castiel’s request, just warmth and a hand slid over his jaw, the softness of Dean’s mouth, and the wonderfully hard planes of his body. At that moment, Castiel knows for sure that there will never be devotion like this, never be anything in all of Creation that makes him burn the way he does for Dean. Forget taking a bullet, Castiel would raze the entirety of the planet for the man in his arms, no questions asked. 

There’s no hurry, here. No urgency to take things further than both of them attempting to touch every bit of the other’s skin and kiss like kissing is all there is. Dean is careful, methodical in the way he tilts Castiel’s jaw, letting just the tip of his tongue run across the seam of closed lips, his own stretching into a smile that Castiel _feels_ when he rewards Dean with a moan. His hand closes around Dean’s hip, the other still pushed underneath him, wrapped around his waist, and Castiel spreads his fingers against Dean’s lower back, applying pressure to keep Dean tight against him. The scruff he’s sporting (and may never shave again after this) provides the most delicious contrast when Dean turns his attention to Castiel’s neck and jaw, tongue scraping against the grain from pulse point to earlobe. 

Dean dips down again, very clearly pleased with the noises Castiel is making, to draw them out further by biting over the _throb, throb, throb,_ of the artery itself. Castiel’s eyes roll back in his head, his hand dragging up Dean’s flank in what he hopes conveys _extreme_ approval, coming to rest over the faint handprint still visible on Dean’s shoulder. He squeezes, feeling the satisfying way the raised skin fits the shape of his hand exactly, and Dean sucks in a breath before capturing his lips again almost desperately. 

It’s nearly frantic between them for several seconds, exchanged kisses slightly harder and undercut with a tension-strung _need_ that makes Castiel roll them both over, covering Dean’s body with his own to hold him down, keep him safe—from what, he has no idea. Dean bites at Castiel's bottom lip, lets it drag out from between his teeth slowly, and when Castiel opens his eyes, he finds Dean looking back at him from under heavy lids. As he watches, Dean takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, a thumb dragging over Castiel’s parted mouth, leaving his bottom lip wet where it pulls moisture from his own tongue. Dean leans in and presses their mouths together softly this time, kissing and then pulling away not even an inch, doing that on repeat until Castiel is sighing with happiness once again. 

When Dean opens, Castiel gladly accepts the invitation, swiping his tongue through Dean’s mouth while Dean tries very admirably to do the same. And Castiel would gladly die like this, he would, and thank Dean for it with his last breath. So he perhaps forgets to stop and breathe, but Dean is thankfully a lot more practiced at being human. When they finally break apart, Castiel’s chest heaves against Dean’s as he watches Dean tip his head back and gasp, his smile still radiant despite (or maybe because of, that’s a thing) the lack of air.

Bending his neck to kiss Dean’s bare chest and the tattoo marking the spot over his heart, it occurs to Castiel that he is genuinely _happy,_ perhaps for the first time. Not that he hasn’t had good memories, not that he hasn’t laughed and enjoyed himself and even, on occasion, felt _good_ since he Fell, but this is different. He might have lived his whole life and never known the difference, had Dean not decided that everything was different, now. That’s a terrifying thought, but only because Castiel now has something to compare it to. 

When Dean has caught his breath, he turns his unflinching attention easily back to Castiel, smiling in that way that makes his whole face look soft, and Castiel can hardly bear it. He drags Dean in, holds him close, revels in his heat and the shape of him Castiel has known so well and yet not at all, vows silently to never let him go. To his credit, the only thing Dean does is to grab the blankets and hoist them up over their shoulders to keep the warmth from their bodies in. Wrapped up like that, in Dean and a kind of safety and intimacy he’s never before known, Castiel is fast asleep before he even realizes he’s fading. 

***


	4. New Washington

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _With a tip of his head, Max pushes down on his own thighs and stands up. “Well, if orgies are off the menu, you are going to need a new hobby.”_
> 
> _That thought hadn’t even occurred to Castiel, not really, and he resents the implication that recreational drugs aren’t also a valid hobby of his, but he’s not invested enough to chase Max down and set him straight. Besides, Dean is motioning for him to follow up the stairs, and where Dean goes, so goes Castiel’s nation._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one, and probably my favorite chapter! If you think it's a DtoA shoutout, it probably is.  
> Explicit content ahead ;)  
> Warnings for bottom Dean and references to past Cas/others, including Cas/Max and Cas/Alicia (but separately, no twincest).

The multi-story walls come into view long before anything distinguishable about the city itself does. “Gate Two,” Castiel reminds Dean anxiously, relegated once again to the passenger’s seat of the Jeep, now that Dean’s more or less recovered from his temporary trip to the afterlife. 

Dean just grunts and Castiel sighs, gesturing ahead of them to where the road forks and Dean will have to choose wisely or risk New Washington’s guards deciding to simply take them out. “To the left,” Castiel adds, all too aware that they are driving one of Chitaqua’s most visibly armed vehicles while all of Chitaqua’s survivors are supposed to be inside those walls. It’s not exactly a recipe for a warm welcome. 

New Washington, having been built not _by_ any government in particular but by _people_ who were a part of the former U.S. government once upon a time, is a paranoid place. They seem to have a reluctant sort of willingness to take in and harbor any non-infected survivors who ask, but they suffer from what all fledgling democratic governments suffer from: an exaggerated sense of self-importance and the very firm belief that their way is the only way. 

Thankfully, Dean had managed to forge a sort of peace with them, shortly after the walls were completed and it became clear that New Washington was going to be _the_ only other game in town. Camp of under fifty people, limited opportunities for “interaction” (and no, that doesn’t mean just sex, but it also _does_ mean sex, beause humans, and hunters at that), making friends on a leadership level (read: quid pro quo) was ultimately a no-brainer. 

Still, Dean had always resisted assimilating completely. While he was fine with rotating their patrol through New Wash to help their (not nearly as prepared _or_ terrifying) militia train and defend the city, that was as far as he’d go. Sure, Chitaqua’s patrol groups assigned there for each month also stayed in a building designated for their usage, but Dean wouldn’t stay, and he made sure no one else got too comfortable. 

Any talk of one of _his_ people wanting to relocate to New Wash permanently would get them yanked straight off of patrol and sent to bed without dinner, Chitaqua style, which meant no more patrol at all (boring) and no orgies (back to the _limited interaction_ thing). 

Castiel had long privately suspected this issue was Lucifer-related, and Dean’s willingness to close down Chitaqua for good now only strengthens that assumption. It makes sense—Dean couldn’t take the chance that his army would abandon him and his mission before they ever got to the Big Show. 

Ridiculous, though, because nearly everyone at Chitaqua was and _is_ someone whose ass Dean personally saved and _then_ recruited; there’s no loyalty like that forged in fire. Castiel knows, because he listens, because he’s fucked pretty much everyone at the camp and people _talk_ after sex, who knew? None of them were ever going anywhere. 

Castiel knows that the Zachariah-sent version of Past Dean took issue with Dean’s ordering of his people into what was essentially a death trap, but this is part of what _that_ Dean was missing. Everyone _knew_ exactly what that mission was, what the _entire point_ of Chitaqua itself was. If Dean’s single-minded focus and dedication to ruthlessly tracking down and eliminating Lucifer at the expense of absolutely everything (and everyone) over the years wasn’t enough, the fact that the remainder of Chitaqua had been ordered to pack-up and head to New Washington permanently was all that had to be said. 

It’s not that Castiel is worried about New Wash accepting Dean and him, that isn’t in question. While he strongly suspects that New Wash’s leadership somewhat prefers Dean and his trigger finger holed up those hundred or so miles north in Chitaqua itself, Chitaqua’s army and Dean’s undisputed, iron-fisted command of it are invaluable to the city itself. New Washington might have walls, but they’re not a delusional bunch. No one wants to make an enemy of Dean Winchester. 

No, so long as they play this correctly, once they’re through the gates, Castiel and Dean will undoubtedly be welcomed with open arms, as much as anyone is anywhere these days. 

This has always been the offer, after all. For Chitaqua to assimilate into New Washington completely, and for Dean to assume control of the entire militia itself, theirs and his own, should he want to. There’s very little risk to New Wash’s leadership—they know perfectly well that Dean isn’t political, that with him, what you see is what you get. 

And while Dean is happy to play Army General (or more accurately these days, Mall Security, Plus Weapons), short of finding out that New Wash’s mayor is Lucifer in a tux rental, Dean (and his weaponized charm plus effortless popularity and lethal legion of followers) is no danger to them. On the flip side, the bragging rights and the intimidation factor of having _the_ Dean Winchester leading your walled city’s militia—no explanation needed there. 

Actually getting through the gates, though, that’s the tricky part. There’s a particular pattern of approach that Chitaqua was taught first thing when they started sending patrols, but since Dean generally avoids coming here, he’s not exactly practiced. Not to mention, his casual dismissal of Castiel’s reminders and refusal to defer to him even though Castiel has done this song and dance _many_ times doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, either. It’s strangely comforting to know that certain things haven’t changed between them, but Castiel could have done with a reminder that didn’t actively threaten their lives.

“Dean,” he says patiently. “Stop at the city limits sign ahead and put your hand out the window. Hold up two fingers, and wait for them to acknowledge you.” They’re still about a mile from the actual wall, but Castiel knows they’ve been under surveillance since at least another mile back, probably more. He was tripping on shrooms during Chitaqua’s official tour of the defense systems and can’t be one hundred percent certain. 

Another grunt from Dean, but at least he rolls to a stop next to the sign Castiel had indicated. Perhaps they won’t be picked off by a sniper, after all. Castiel watches without making it clear that’s what he’s doing as Dean rolls down the window and holds up a peace sign: _there are two of us._ By now, whoever’s working the enhanced sightline has clocked their faces; all that’s left is for Castiel and Dean to hold their breath and hope it’s not someone who dislikes them enough to forgo seeing if they are who they are. 

A small, white light embedded in the bottom point of the diamond-shaped sign flashes, and Castiel reaches over to squeeze Dean’s thigh. “Go ahead,” he says. All must be well, because as they close the remaining distance to the wall, the twenty-foot tall, heavy double-doors swing inward and the forged-iron bars covering them on the outside begin to raise up. 

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters. “Security got upgraded since I was here last.” 

“I don’t even think the power grid was up and running when you were here last,” Castiel replies pointedly, nudging Dean to pay attention as two _very_ armed guards wave them forward, four more waiting up ahead, presumably to search the car. Except, no, because to Castiel’s relief, he recognizes the one standing in the middle, wearing a red armband with a “C” that designates her as Shift Commander. 

“Jody,” he says in relief, unbuckling his seatbelt and jumping out of the Jeep with a lot less caution than he otherwise would have.

“Hey kiddo,” Jody says with a wide smile, pulling a flask from her loaded utility belt and tossing it to him. “Get this over with so I can hug you.” 

Compliantly, Castiel twists off the lid (iron, he notes in approval) and takes a swig of the presumably blessed salty water. Passing the flask to Dean, he accepts the knife Jody offers next and presses the blade to his wrist until there’s beaded blood. Dean does the same and Jody mock-wipes her brow with pretend relief. 

“Just kidding,” she says. “Everyone bet you were dead, but I knew it’d take more than the Devil himself to take you two out. Hey,” she continues, slapping Castiel’s arm. “Better believe I’m collecting on those bets. Party at my place tonight, at least six of your people owe me alcohol.” 

“Six?” Castiel replies in disgust. “That’s six soldiers who didn’t properly internalize the lesson on not placing bets you can’t win, on and off the field. We’ll have to re-train.” 

Jody snorts. “I see you haven’t wasted any time slipping into that second-in-command position,” she says. “Let me guess, you saved his sorry ass so you wouldn’t have to actually _be_ in charge?” Clapping him on the shoulder, Jody strides away before Castiel can properly reply, checking in on New Wash’s soldiers who are, inexplicably, still searching the vehicle. 

“Second-in…?” Castiel says faintly, glaring at Dean who is suddenly and suspiciously interested in the sky. “I didn’t consent to that,” he snaps.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says with a shrug. “I didn’t wanna move here at all. What was I supposed to do, leave Chuck in charge? I mean that’s funny, considering, but don’t act like you weren’t always gonna survive that place, God-interventions aside. It was the right choice.” 

Dean’s tone is defensive as hell, but Castiel knows him well enough to catch the vulnerability underneath. He supposes it doesn’t matter, in the end. He knows New Washington well enough, knows Chitaqua’s people as well as Dean does, and while it’s never been in name, he’s been Dean’s second-in-command, his voice of reason, all along. Slightly disturbing, considering his usual drugged-out state, but there it is. 

“Does this mean I’ll have to be sober more frequently than I already am?” 

Dean looks at him like he’s crazy, and point, he wouldn’t, even if that was the case. “No,” he says incredulously. “Not like you need to be. No one else can hit a dime with a long-range from a mile away sober, never mind fucked up on acid and ecstasy.”

Thoughtfully, Castiel steps forward and wraps long fingers around Dean’s hip. He’s slow and deliberate, knowing full-well that all eyes are still on them and that much more aroused for it. _Possessive,_ no one ever accused him of not being it, and this is a very large city with many attractive, opportunistic people who might like to get close to Dean. Not if Castiel has anything to say about it ( _he does)_. 

“That sounds like a fascinating combination that we should both try someday. Strictly for research purposes, but also, imagine what the sex would be like?” 

“Why don’t you just pee on me?” Dean complains gruffly, but the corners of his lips twitch with a badly hidden smirk that makes Castiel outright grin. 

“This is new,” Jody interjects with an interested look, waving one finger up and down the length of their bodies. She pauses for a moment and then shrugs. “Guess you won’t have to fight over who gets the master suite in your building. From what I heard, they put Cas’ stuff in it already.” 

With narrowed eyes, Castiel steps away from Dean and scratches his chin. “All of my clothes and personal items were still in my cabin at Chitaqua, so I can only assume by ‘stuff” that you mean my medication stash, which was suspiciously missing. I therefore suspect that by ‘put Cas’ stuff in it’, you may also mean that Chitaqua South has established a recreational drug den for partying purposes. I don’t know whether to be disappointed or proud.” 

“Chitaqua South?” Dean questions and Castiel lifts a shoulder distractedly, still thinking about his stash and wondering how badly it’s been raided. Honestly, that collection took time, effort, and careful curation. Heads will roll if it’s been plundered beyond salvation; this is a _much_ worse betrayal than assuming he and Dean were dead.

“I’m supposed to ask if you think you’ll be up for a meeting with the Mayor this evening,” Jody interjects, steering them back towards the Jeep as she talks. “And to relay with my tone that said meeting is not a request. Get in, I’ll ride with you to your place.” She hops into the back, perching carelessly on luggage as Dean puts the car in drive. 

As the guards wave him on (as if the three of them need permission to do _anything_ in New Washington now, Dean’s Jeep is already sporting a windshield sticker proclaiming his designation as General), the gates begin closing behind them. “Figure you can get settled in and then meet me downstairs so we can go over duty schedules, protocol shit, all the boring details you always seem to get out of having to sit through. You gotta know ‘em now, boss,” Jody continues cheerfully. 

“Cas knows ‘em,” Dean replies distractedly, though Castiel knows that he’s doing it on purpose. Unfortunately for Dean, feigning disinterest is unlikely to get him excused from any of this from here on out. New Washington is nothing if not by the book, and they love their SOPs. 

Castiel’s not worried; Dean will adjust. He’ll complain nearly constantly, but he’ll do it. And if there’s a bright side, all that bureaucracy will undoubtedly increase Dean’s willingness to escape that reality using psychoactive escapist technology. Carefully and safely dosed by his doting, amateur pharmacist boyfriend and apparent 2IC, of course.

Dean has been here enough times to be aware of Chitaqua: The New’s location, at least, and how to get there. In fact, Castiel knows that Dean takes this job a lot more seriously than he lets on, (lack of) visits aside. He’s caught Dean studying the plans and the layout for the advanced-for-the-apocalypse survivors’ colony; everything from the way the electric grid runs, to the primitive sewer and drainage system, all from the comfort of his cabin in Chitaqua. After all, it wouldn’t look good for the person in charge of New Washington’s safety to appear unclear on basic city operations, and Dean is extremely mindful of that. 

Which is why Castiel forgives him for the promotion he never asked for; it’s nothing except for Dean doing the job he was appointed to do. With any luck, so long as he keeps Dean alive and free of any debilitating illnesses or injuries, it’s unlikely he’ll have to do much of anything at all (besides let Dean talk his ear off and nod where appropriate, but that isn’t new). 

Chitaqua: The Next Generation (meh) has its headquarters on the main drag, centrally located to nearly everything New Washington has to offer. Save for the fields, which are naturally on the outskirts of town. The building that houses the mayor, meeting rooms, and various other municipal leadership offices is straight across the way, and Castiel’s relatively sure that’s no accident. 

Convenience aside (which is a great excuse), Chitaqua, as useful as they are to New Wash, is a bit of a wildcard. It’s hardly surprising that the brass would want to store the non-citizen militia where they can easily keep tabs on them. Now that they’re fully integrated, though, Castiel wonders if that curtain of suspicion will disappear, or get denser. Only time will tell, not that they have anything to hide (at the moment, but give it time). 

Aside from the local government offices, there’s also a hospital, a firehouse (plus another on the west end of town) with an ambulance, and a support services building for families with children and the elderly that includes school and caregivers. There’s a facilities/maintenance building, and several warehouses-turned storage centers, for community supplies. There are also multiple grocery-style “stores”, divided by type (dry goods, produce, animal-related offerings including meat, eggs, and milk). Even what passes for a coffee shop, where several industrial-sized coffee makers are always available and full of hot, caffeinated (or decaffeinated, why?) bliss. 

Castiel can’t lie, the coffee situation alone sold him on New Washington long ago. 

As for the “stores”, they don’t operate traditionally; there is no bartering or purchasing in New Washington, so to speak. Everyone who lives in the city is entitled to a share of whatever is available, provided they are giving back to the community in whatever way they are able and have agreed to upon their arrival. 

As far as Castiel knows, the city hasn’t run into any issues with people taking and not giving back. Generally speaking, the apocalypse and its lack of electricity and indoor plumbing seems to have made socialism a lot more palatable to the surviving general public. No one wants to go back to living in the unsecured dark, watching their family be eaten by monsters, and wiping their asses with leaves. It isn’t like Chuck was wrong about that part. 

It’s been a few months since Castiel’s visited the city himself, but the last time he was here, Chitaqua: The Relocated was working on self-sufficiency (as much as possible). There is a garden flourishing behind their renovated bank-turned-communal living space, and at last check, around fifty percent of their food has been reliably harvested from it. Castiel expects that number to improve in the future, once they’ve mastered planting and harvesting seasons, at least. 

They also have a dozen chickens housed in a homemade coop, gifted to them as a welcome by one of the Farming heads. Related, Castiel will never tell Dean that he’d genuinely considered not returning to Chitaqua (the Original) the morning he’d enjoyed fresh, scrambled eggs for the first time. That garbage that comes powdered in a paper packet and Dean insists is exactly the same (because reasons, Chitaqua is just as good as New Washington, Castiel’s heard it all) nearly made him cry when he’d returned to it and their dilapidated mess hall. 

There are mess halls here in New Wash, but they are something else entirely. Not everyone utilizes them, but plenty do, and the opportunity to give back to the community by preparing food en masse is a popular one. Understandably so, since some people don’t have copious skills to contribute, but food is a universal language and need. 

Castiel was overwhelmed the first time he’d visited; the main hall seats around two hundred people at a time and works buffet-style, running basically around the clock to accommodate anyone who is hungry. Cookware and dishes get washed as they go, meals change gradually from breakfast to lunch to dinner, from standard American fare to Indian to Thai to Japanese, and every other speciality you can think of, depending on who is cooking. 

No one goes hungry, and everyone contributes willingly. Castiel’s not sure how long that system will be sustainable if the population of New Washington grows much beyond what it is now, because humans. He supposes that’s self-resolving, or at least something for future Dean and Castiel to worry about, as it pertains to potential civilian unrest. 

Pulling up outside the former bank, Castiel takes note that there’s a new marked parking spot against the curb. It’s designated for “Chitaqua 1,” which is whoever is currently in charge of Chitaqua’s visiting patrol, now permanently Dean. 

“Does that make me Chitaqua 2?” he asks with a very straight face, watching as Dean tries his best to visualize his brain with his eyeballs. 

“Out,” Dean grumbles. “Get your shit.” 

“Oh, Captain, my Captain,” Castiel recites dramatically, before offering a lazy salute. As he exits the vehicle, he pops the pill bottle that’s resting in his jacket pocket open and selects one, swallowing it down before Dean can see and chastise him. 

Their reception inside Chitaqua’s base is more shock than welcome, despite the fact that there’s exactly a zero percent chance no one radioed over from the wall to warn them that Dean and Castiel were coming. Right away, Dean does cursory checks on the status of his people and patrol before nodding at Jody and promising to meet up with her in a few hours, back in the same spot. 

For his part, Castiel sends his luggage upstairs with the most guilty-looking person he catches sight of, positive that said person—Brynn—was responsible for stealing his cache and appropriating it for the entire group. Brynn’s a deceptively strong, four-foot-eleven powerhouse whose bad side he would never want to be on, but she’s _also_ never passed up an opportunity to indulge (“ _interact”)_ with Castiel, when it’s on offer. Either she’ll do her best to rectify her mistake, or she’ll be scared enough to take whatever’s left in the box in an attempt to cover her tracks. Hopefully not that, but Castiel’s been told he can be terrifying when he tries. 

As he watches Brynn’s dirty-blonde ponytail disappear up the wide, ornate staircase that leads to the second floor and listens to her steps quicken further as she makes her way towards the third, Castiel smiles to himself. Clocking Dean still reviewing patrol logs, he flops down on a _very_ comfortable leather sofa that’s parked in the middle of the lobby, not displeased when Max crashes down beside him. 

Max and his twin sister Alicia came back with Dean and his team from what was supposed to be a standard supply run, nearly two years prior. Castiel is sketchy on the details since neither of them were keen on reliving whatever went down, but he knows it had something to do with their mother. He also knows that both Alicia and Max impressed Dean with their fighting skills and ability to stay calm in a crisis right off the bat, and for those reasons were quickly recruited to Team Chitaqua. 

While Castiel’s not sure what the etiquette is on sleeping with someone _and_ their twin on a regular basis (though not at the same time, because that’s not a particular fantasy Castiel has ever been interested in), he generally avoids speaking to either Max or Alicia outside of the bedroom. Not because he doesn’t like them, but because his social skills are terrible and inevitably, he’s bound to say something that will ruin his chances with either of them. 

Now, though, that point is moot, since whether Dean is aware of it or not, Castiel has no intention of having sex with anyone else ever again. “Hello, Max,” he greets him, suddenly and for no reason reminded that technically, Max is his subordinate now, officially. Perhaps it’s good that Dean had a change of heart for more than one reason—the ethics of engaging carnally with people whose lives you are in charge of professionally are questionable, at best. 

“Are you really banging Dean?” Max asks bluntly. 

“That was quick, even for Chitaqua,” Castiel says, sinking further into the couch with a very put-upon sigh. “Not yet, but Chuck-willing by sun-up.”

“What?” 

“Never mind.” 

“Seriously, though. What happened, Lucifer hex him or something?” Max’s gorgeous, ice-blue eyes are wide and curious, and only because Castiel knows that he’s not an asshole (one of the few non-assholes Chitaqua boasts) does he bother entertaining a reply. 

“We’re in love,” Castiel says flatly and Max laughs, pausing for a moment in horror before Castiel joins in, laughing along with him. “We are, though,” he says eventually. “Spread that around, would you? I don’t need people thinking that Chitaqua’s power structure is domestically unstable at the top.”

“Is it?” Max questions, smile still playing at the corner of his lips.

“I hope not,” Castiel replies, slightly bewildered. “Time will tell. I am keeping the suite, regardless,” he continues. “I’ve slept on that mattress, it’s downright heavenly, I would know.” 

Max laughs again and slaps Castiel’s thigh. It’s _just_ on the side of too familiar, Castiel will stop him if he tries to go further, but it’s not as if his history with these people is some sort of state secret. 

“Shame.” Max pouts. “I’m glad you’re alive, but I was looking forward to getting in on that mattress action with you.” 

“Max,” Castiel warns.

“To _sleep,_ ” he clarifies brightly. “I’m on a pallet bedroll on the second floor next to Alicia. The lengths I’d go to score a real mattress…” Max shakes his head. “Think that week where we only had canned tuna in the mess.” 

Castiel scrunches his nose. “Point taken. I’ll see what I can do—” He stops short. “I’ll… get Dean to see what _he_ can do regarding sourcing some real beds. We’ll make them if we have to. That could be interesting.” 

With a tip of his head, Max pushes down on his own thighs and stands up. “Well, if orgies are off the menu, you are going to need a new hobby.” 

That thought hadn’t even occurred to Castiel, not really, and he resents the implication that recreational drugs aren’t _also_ a valid hobby of his, but he’s not invested enough to chase Max down and set him straight. Besides, Dean is motioning for him to follow up the stairs, and where Dean goes, so goes Castiel’s nation. 

“Fifth floor,” Castiel murmurs, not-so-casually brushing a hand over Dean’s lower back as they start up the stairs. 

“ _Fifth?_ Fuck,” Dean swears. “How is _that_ the “best” room?” As he stomps up the steps, Dean actually uses air quotes, and once again Castiel is thrown back in time to before the world was like this, to before everything ended. These glimpses of the “old” Dean stop his heart every time. If he’s not careful, they are absolutely going to do him in, heartbreaking and hopeful as they are. Surprisingly overcome, Castiel stops Dean with a hand on his arm and drags him in for a hug. 

Of course, Dean misunderstands the gesture and complains into Castiel’s shoulder, though he doesn’t pull away. “Pee. On. Me,” he grumbles. “In a stream around my ankles so no one comes near me, everyone gets it, Cas, you can stop now.” Despite his words, Dean presses his face into Castiel’s neck and lets his lips skate gently over his collarbone. “C’mon,” he says, pulling away reluctantly and taking Castiel’s hand as he starts back up the steps. “Better start walking so we can get to our room by tomorrow.” 

Unable to help it, Castiel glances over his shoulder just in time to see all the gawkers in the lobby snap back to what they were doing, a terrible attempt at looking busy and like they weren’t creeping on their leaders’ private moment. While he wasn’t actually attempting to mark Dean as his own, Castiel can’t deny that the outcome and effect are satisfying. 

Theirs is the only room on the fifth floor, though there are a couple of storage closets that supposedly contain linens, cleaning products, and other miscellaneous supplies. The building narrows at the top, the fifth floor actually a half-floor compared to the ones below it. With his hand still wrapped firmly in Castiel’s, Dean pushes open the first door to find a generous space, twenty by twenty at least on Castiel’s estimation, with a king-sized bed pushed up against the right side. Several extra-tall windows adorn the wall across from them, and when Castiel pushes the curtains back, he can see that they’re high enough to look out over most of the low-slung city. 

The higher buildings that existed _before_ came down shortly after this site was chosen to become New Washington; most of them having become structurally unstable and unable to be salvaged. The town hall might be the only one that’s higher than Chitaqua’s base, and Castiel’s relatively certain the upper floors are new, but that construction was before his time here. 

Drawing his attention away from the window, Castiel takes note of all their boxes and bags of belongings, plus a sizeable desk and chair, a dresser, and an overstuffed, cushioned mess in the corner. “What is _that?”_ he asks Dean, crinkling his nose in distaste. 

“Hmm?” Dean’s pawing through one of his bags but he looks up when Castiel asks, laughing softly as his eyes land on the lime-green monstrosity. “Oh,” he says. “The age old torture device known as the comfy chair. Standard in hotel suites, or so I was told, mostly used to punish men whose significant others have kicked them out of bed.”

Castiel squints. “What are the odds that chair was in here _before_ Jody saw us touching at the gate?” 

“Uh,” Dean says thoughtfully, pretending to consider the question seriously as he straightens up and dusts off his hands. “Hovering somewhere between zero and negative four,” he concludes. 

“That’s what I thought.” Castiel turns away from the chair, noting an open doorway that leads into a tiled space. He pokes his head inside to find a sink, toilet, clawfoot tub, and a shower with a wide glass enclosure. It’s big, at least half the size of the main room, and smells like fresh grout and paint. Everything in the room is bright white and clean. 

“Dean,” he calls, and Dean instantly appears at his side, standing a little too close, just because he can. “This is brand new,” he observes. “They must have built it for us.” 

“Maybe I won’t kill them for the comfy chair dig, then,” Dean says and Castiel grins, reaching up to pat his cheek affectionately. 

“It _is_ a bit strange, you and I,” he allows. “After everything.”

“Fuck them,” Dean scoffs, slinging a toiletry bag onto the counter next to the sink before returning to the bedroom. “Those fuckers don’t get to judge us after the things I’ve seen them do. Some of them with _you,_ ” he amends. “In public!” Castiel can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t try, just shrugs and makes his way over to where Dean is now sitting on the bed.

It’s an extremely nice-looking bed, already fitted with worn but comfortable-looking sheets and a comforter that Castiel is more than interested in wrapping himself up in. They have their blankets from Chitaqua, but one can never have enough blankets in an apocalypse (or a post-apocalyptic city). Knowing their soldiers, Castiel would be wary of the state of the bed, but a quick sweep of his hand between the sheets reveals them to be clean. Plus, they smell fresh, like they were recently washed.

“Do we have a washing machine here?” Dean wonders and Castiel shakes his head, _no idea, but he’ll find out, all of their clothing should smell like this._

As he admires the bedding, Castiel’s eyes catch sight of the plastic bottle Dean has fished out of his duffle already, clocking it sitting innocuously at the foot of the mattress. “How much time do you have before your meeting with Jody?” he wonders out loud, fingers still working the edge of the comforter between his fingers. 

“I’m the boss,” Dean says casually, kicking his boots off and reclining on the bed with his hands tucked behind his head. It’s very _I don’t give a shit, do what you want Cas,_ which is exactly the opposite of what his face says, and Castiel’s into it. “I’ll show up when I feel like it. Maybe I’ll send you and not show up at all, Chitaqua 2.” His eyes sparkle. 

“If I’m going, I’m not going to be sober,” Castiel warns and Dean shrugs, _so what?_ “As you wish,” Castiel says agreeably. “Is there anything else I can do for my leader, in the meantime?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out so provocative, or, well, perhaps he _did,_ but only inside his head. It’s just that, Castiel’s fingers are on Dean’s thigh when he opens his mouth, and there are only so many ways one can take that. 

There’s no ambiguity when Dean pounces, sitting up just far enough to grab Castiel firmly by the shoulders and toss him down onto the bed. And it's not like they have done this a lot, or this particular thing ever before. Because of that, Castiel has a hard time _not_ feeling overwhelmed, or like this is the first time ever someone has touched him this way. 

_Although,_ he thinks—as Dean’s tongue presses hot inside his mouth, his own hand reaching up to curl around the back of Dean’s head as Dean’s hand slides against the sensitive skin underneath the hem of his shirt— _perhaps it is._

 _Sex,_ Castiel has had a lot of, likely more than would have been deemed “healthy” or even safe by pre-apocalyptic human physician and CDC standards. That was then, this is now, they have bigger fish to fry and getting precious about bodily fluids always seemed like a luxury, not so much common sense. At least, when the likelihood of dying from Croat or by _a Croat_ or hell, Lucifer’s right hand was equally as probable as living to see the next sunrise. 

Not that Castiel’s had a lot of experience with _love,_ either, but it would appear that it’s one of those things that explains itself as it unravels. Because touching Dean, being close to Dean, this is _lust,_ certainly and without a doubt, that’s there. But it’s also an extremely confusing mix of _pain_ and hope, the fierce desire to protect and cover, to get as close as fucking possible and never, ever let go. 

_Unnerving,_ ineffable, and completely irresistible, Castiel never stood a chance. 

By the time Castiel gets with the program and remembers to react, Dean already has both of his shirts off and the too-big jeans Castiel’s wearing halfway down his thighs. Since today felt like an “underwear is excessive” sort of Tuesday, that makes him essentially naked while Dean is very much fully-clothed.

_Unacceptable._

With renewed intent, Castiel jumps in, first cupping Dean’s cheek to pull him down and kiss him with vigor, Dean’s third-day stubble scraping against his own; rough, perfect, exactly how Castiel’s always imagined, _next up: between his thighs._

It’s hard to decide what to do with Dean first, so Castiel compromises with himself by peeling off Dean’s upper layers. He leaves his legs straddling Castiel’s hips the way that they are, because that’s extremely pleasant. Dean’s no passive participant, is happy to be pulled and pushed but doesn’t wait around to chase his pleasure, either. That mentality has him grinding down against Castiel’s groin even as his hands are up, face hidden under shirts that are being pulled over his head unceremoniously. 

And then he’s back, bare chest and torso in touching range again, Castiel’s hands drifting up his spine before trying his best to press kisses over all of it, every inch of skin he can see. If he could, Castiel would count the freckles smattering Dean’s shoulders with his mouth, would keep Dean here, like this forever, because no amount of time could ever be long enough to get over him. 

Eventually, the friction of denim rubbing against his cock becomes more troublesome than relieving, and Castiel pops the buttons on Dean’s jeans to start working them off. Dean struggles against him, only half-trying to help but mostly focused on continuing to make out with Castiel relentlessly, sighing and moaning like a goddamn _siren_ and tugging at Castiel’s shoulder to try and get their bodies closer together. It’s counter-effective to clothing removal but Castiel manages, kicking the remainder of his own clothes off as Dean’s _finally_ get worked down over his legs and off. 

When it’s just them, _just them,_ Dean pulls off of Castiel’s mouth with a little _pop_ and a sharp intake of breath that makes his lips part around it. He stares down at Castiel moving underneath him, _against_ him, from only inches away and his pink-cheeked, lust-drunk, heavy-lidded expression says it all. 

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean says out loud anyway, soft and encouraging, hitching his thigh up around Castiel’s hip to better position them to slide together. He bites his lip as Castiel watches in fascination, then grabs the lube and gets his own fingers inside himself before Castiel can even jump on the chance. Much as that might irk him (because Castiel wants it _all)_ , he _is_ awfully busy fisting hands in Dean’s hair and rutting against him anyway, isn’t sure he could stop if he wanted to. 

Everything comes down to the points of contact between them: the breadth of Castiel’s hand along the curve of Dean’s neck. The moist heat of Dean’s mouth, teeth scraping urgently along Castiel’s jaw before he tips his head to bring them together again. The feel of Dean’s ass, when Castiel squeezes a cheek in his hand, the way Dean’s cock feels impossibly hot, hard and silky soft as it slides against his own. 

And then Dean’s hands are braced on his chest as Dean sits up, sinking down on him easily, rocking his hips to sit flush against Castiel’s pelvis. 

Having _Dean_ surrounding him, _all around him,_ over him and allowed to touch any part of him, it’s—Castiel takes it back, he’s never had sex before. Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t sex. Maybe some half-passable imitation, _practice_ at best because none of it, _none of it_ remotely compares to this. His breath is stolen from his lungs, sucked out by Dean’s need to breathe, and Castiel gives it gladly, would give _anything_ for this Dean. If he thought he’d raze the world for him before without thought or question, he had _no_ idea. 

It’s almost too much, and not enough, the most cliche of thoughts and feelings rambling through Castiel’s addled brain and he _knows_ he’s being ridiculous and yet—

With Dean’s muscles clenching around him, Dean’s hips swaying and rocking and Dean himself moaning like a goddamn pornstar above him, Castiel snaps. He reaches up to drag Dean down hard, flipping them gracefully and hauling Dean’s thigh up over his forearm. Dean _laughs_ and grabs the headboard, “ _Fuck yeah, Cas,"_ as he meets Castiel thrust for thrust, biceps bulging and abs flexing with the effort. 

This is a _privilege,_ Castiel understands that, an unbelievable thing he’s been allowed to have, the most perfect of all of his Father’s billion-year and multi-universe creations, underneath him, holding him. He fucks Dean with reverence and also abandon, stars and stardust in his eyes when Dean grabs the back of his neck, tenses up and comes screaming _his_ name, _his name, Castiel, not Cas,_ like some kind of prayer and Castiel can’t help but follow him over the edge. 

He kisses Dean like it’s the last time and when he’s done coming down, sweaty and hot against Dean’s equally burning skin, he has not _one—not one—_ single regret regarding the entirety of his existence. 

“Mmm,” Dean sighs happily, turning over from his back to curl into Castiel’s side and thread fingers up into his hair, scratching soothingly. He nuzzles into the crook of Castiel’s neck like a cat, tangling their legs together thighs to toes, and _oh,_ Castiel was wrong again— _this is becoming a pattern_ —surely, _this_ is Heaven. 

By straight comparison, even the private heaven Castiel favored (when he could do such a thing), the quiet stillness of a park on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, could never compare to the peace and inner harmony, the pure _bliss_ he feels right now simply laying in Dean’s arms. 

There are no words, so Castiel doesn’t even try. Within minutes, Dean’s snoring and Castiel knows he should set an alarm but it’s not as if he even knows what time Dean is supposed to meet Jody again. 

Besides, Dean looks utterly peaceful, relaxed and _happy_ in a way that takes Castiel straight back to 2009. Not that this was a common state for Dean, even back then, but it certainly showed up more often than _never._ Usually after a successful hunt, an oversized burger, and some time alone in a motel room with his pornography stash while Sam was occupied elsewhere. 

Castiel once admitted to Dean that he’d been in those motel rooms on occasion, observing sight unseen. It was innocent, back then at least, when Castiel was all pure curiosity about humanity and _Dean_ and how whatever was in those magazines could magically turn Dean’s mood from sour to sweet like the snap of Gabriel’s fingers turned people to dust. 

Innocent or not, Dean hadn’t liked that particular revelation, and hadn’t spoken to Castiel for over a week after he’d shared it. Considering that was during the time they were sharing a bed, Castiel finds that memory particularly unpleasant. 

Now though—to see Dean sated and soft, the way he is next to him, brings it all back in a good way, and Castiel wouldn’t wake him for the world. When a soft knock comes at the door an hour or so later, Castiel makes a decision. 

Scooting carefully out from under Dean, he covers his leader’s exhausted body, slips his clothes back on quietly, and leaves the man to sleep. It’s been _years_ since Dean has simply been left to sleep, after all. Not one person in this building—in this entire colony—would dare suggest he doesn’t deserve it.

And if they did, Castiel would ensure they didn’t live to tell about it. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DtoA peeps... did you figure out the name connection with the city? :-P


	5. After the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps this is what Dean wants, anyway, since he certainly must have known it’s where he was headed. _Thou shalt not press thy boyfriend’s very well-known buttons without consequence._ The lesser-known but very important Eleventh Commandment, look it up. 
> 
> It’s been three months since they arrived, and in Castiel’s opinion, that meets the arbitrary standard he’s just made up for coping by moping without risk of extreme intervention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: vague mentions of past Cas/others, *explicit content*, references to bottom dean, Cas seducing Dean, Cas trying to dress like a pinup model out of a porn mag, anal fingering, bossy bottom Cas, Dean being jealous of panties.

The meeting downstairs with Jody is fine, boring, all of the things Castiel has been avoiding when it comes to the day-to-day minutiae of surviving in post-apocalyptica, or whatever this is. Why he’s suddenly volunteering to dive in headfirst is beyond his ability to conceive, Dean’s beauty sleep aside. He’d blame sex except no, that’s not it either and Castiel knows it. 

Because after approving what feels like endless rotating schedules filled with patrol obligations, debriefings, meetings with the city leaders, trainings, etc, etc, etc into perpetuity, Castiel does something objectively stupid. At least as far as his drug-consuming obligations are concerned. He finds himself _offering_ to _also_ take Dean’s evening one-to-one with the Mayor, and to oversee shift-change at the wall after that, because appearances, setting an example, something something… Dean hasn’t come downstairs yet. 

His subsequent meeting with the Mayor is mind-numbing but blessedly short; important people with important things to do and important places to go, Castiel wouldn’t know. Except, apparently he would, because as soon as he steps out of the Town Hall, a patrol SUV is waiting (soldier holding the door open and all) to whisk him off to the main gates of the wall.

“Sir.” The man greets him with a non-ironic salute and Castiel smiles tightly, _why_ of all days did he pick today to _not_ bring along the party mix? As he slides into the front seat and the man rounds the car to drive, Castiel is also surprised to note that his brain still wants him to know that this man is attractive. That his dark skin and soulful eyes, well-kept dreadlocks and the spicy cologne he’s wearing are not just aesthetically pleasing, but well within the realm of things Castiel considers in potential partners. 

Which, contrary to popular opinion is not actually limited to “anything breathing and willing” _nor_ “green eyes and a penchant for self-hate,” thank you very much. 

He tables the entire thought process.

At least his duties at the wall are slightly less dull and moderately less likely to cause Castiel to pluck out his own eyeballs from sheer boredom. One can only hide that sort of thing for so long before one starts to offend one’s company (read: Castiel used up his last ounce of patience for _that_ smiling and nodding at the Mayor of New Washington’s very _long_ list of expectations for Chitaqua as a whole, plus Castiel and Dean in particular). 

Between Chitaqua’s home base in town, the forced tours of places he already knows, and now supervising shift change at the wall, by bedtime, Castiel’s managed to speak to nearly every transplant from Chitaqua: the First. Near as he can tell, everyone seems to be adjusting reasonably well to slightly more civilized living (read: plumbing, non-powdered dairy, interaction with more than the same ten people on a regular basis). Surprised to see him doing something besides fucking or lying in the grass and sharpening his blades, cold weather notwithstanding? Yes, but also adjusting, and apparently pleased both that he and Dean survived at all. 

That alone is a bit jarring for Castiel, as he would have been willing to bet money not one person in the camp gave a single flying fuck whether he lived or died. In a very un-Castiel like turn of events, he surprises himself by resolving to do better with the people he’s apparently somewhat in charge of now. Dean was right—not just with Lucifer, but in his proclamation that whatever they were doing in Chitaqua is over, and Dean isn’t the only one who can make a fresh start. 

For the first time, Castiel wonders what it might feel like to really _live,_ and not just survive. He supposes there’s only one way to find out. 

***

It takes _maybe_ a week before Castiel realizes his mistake, though in retrospect, he should have picked up on it that first afternoon they were there, when he came home and Dean was still holed up in their room. Also, it _wasn’t_ really a mistake, not as such, at least. Just a well-intentioned opportunity Dean grabbed hold of like the saddle on that mechanical bull he’d ridden in a bar one time right after Sam left. Even now, Castiel can’t quite tell if his memories of that night are good ones or bad ones. Mostly, they’re just blurry. 

Point being, though, Dean hadn’t left the room, and he _still_ hasn’t. Not for more than a brief walk down to the lobby and back, and even that has only happened once or twice. At first, Castiel had assumed he was simply being melancholy, that the events with Lucifer and Sam had finally caught up with him in a big way. 

Feeling charitable, he’d resisted the urge to haul Dean bodily out of the room and drop-kick him into his responsibilities as New Washington’s highest-ranking officer. After all, Castiel has it under control, mostly. The fact that there are no active threats against the city and the number of Croats spotted since that day at the asylum is exactly zero helps—a little. 

Plus, Dean doesn’t _seem_ depressed, not when Castiel is with him, anyway. Sure, he does a lot of staring out the window and illicit DVD-watching on the laptop he was assigned by New Washington, but if that is the extent of Dean’s struggle to cope with permanently losing Sam, Castiel is remiss to rebuke him. There’s also the fact that Dean’s been extremely open and vocal about _needing_ Castiel—jumping him the minute he comes through the door (with no regard as to who might be behind him, why is that not a mistake you only make once?), wrapping his body around him at night, generally just acting the suckerfish to Castiel’s whale shark. 

And if one has _seen_ Dean, then one knows that simply extricating oneself from the clutches of someone _that_ attractive (and who one has been in love with for the entirety of their existence as a human, possibly prior) is just not as simple as it sounds. So yes, those things may have contributed to Castiel _not_ calling Dean on the carpet for his moody bullshit and instead bringing him meals from the mess and all but spoon-feeding him with airplane sounds. 

A _little._

Eventually, though, enough is enough. Especially as Castiel discovers that his vow to really live in this world, in his skin, is a lot less interesting, a lot less inspiring, without Dean by his side. To his own surprise, he’s actually fairly good at being a leader, though the fact that one of the Host’s former most foremost strategists doesn’t suck at commanding an army; not as revolutionary as Castiel finds it in his own head. 

Still, Dean’s the magic, the glue that brought them this far. He’s the reason Chitaqua was welcomed into New Washington with open arms and the reason all of them are an infallible army to begin with. They _need_ Dean, and Dean needs them too, whether he realizes it yet or not.

Which is what prompts Castiel to start holding regular meetings _inside_ their room, whether Dean is prepared and willing to participate or not. The way Castiel figures it, either he’ll adjust and embrace his role, or he’ll stomp out of the room furious, either way, Castiel wins. At least if he leaves, he’ll be giving the Dean-shaped imprint pressed into the comfy chair a well-deserved break. 

It works, to an extent. Dean seems to hold no objection to entertaining his subjects, which is what the meetings start out feeling like, though thankfully, they evolve. As the days go on, Dean takes more and more of an active interest. He engages his soldiers, starts overseeing the shift schedule himself, mediates disputes both personal and professional, and generally acts as if he gives a shit. 

But only inside the room. 

No matter what Castiel does, what _incentives_ (exactly what it sounds like) he offers (or threatens—also what it sounds like), Dean won’t leave. He won’t talk about it, either, which makes Castiel’s attempts to suss out exactly what is _wrong_ or at least what Dean is _doing_ essentially useless. It’s frustrating, but if there is one thing Castiel knows, it’s that doubling down to try and force Dean Winchester into doing something he isn’t interested in, will _always_ backfire on you. 

In the end, though, that’s exactly what he does—doubles down, and throws in an ultimatum for good measure. After all, Castiel, 2IC or Lieutenant General of New Washington’s armed forces, formerly Castiel, Angel of the Lord, Soldier Of The Host, and/or Castiel, the Frequently Unconscious and Often Three Sheets To The Wind of Chitaqua, does not do things by halves. 

Perhaps this is what Dean wants, anyway, since he certainly must have known it’s where he was headed. _Thou shalt not press thy boyfriend’s very well-known buttons without consequence._ The lesser-known but very important Eleventh Commandment, look it up. 

It’s been three months since they arrived, and in Castiel’s opinion, that meets the arbitrary standard he’s just made up for coping by moping without risk of extreme intervention. 

“Founder’s Day,” Castiel declares aloud, one evening after returning from supervising shift change at the wall. That’s not mandatory, at least not daily, but there was werewolf activity within sightline of the gates the night before, and Castiel wanted to make sure the team going out to take care of it tonight was properly briefed (read: armed to the teeth, also not high or hungover). 

As per usual, Dean is kicked back in his chair, laptop open in front of him (he’s since bribed someone into bringing him a fucking _TV tray,_ Castiel will dismember them slowly when he discovers who it was). He barely looks up, even when Castiel swaps the screen for the dinner plate he brought up from the mess. 

“Hmm?” Dean replies, picking up the provided fork and shoveling a giant portion of seasoned ground beef and pork into his mouth with a pleased sigh. One inarguable perk of living in New Washington is this: fresh—not freeze-dried, canned, or otherwise preserved in chemicals that have more numbers than letters in their names—meat. Normally, Castiel would pick off of Dean’s plate, but he ate with the team going out on the search and destroy mission, so for now, he refrains. 

It’s just as well, since Dean’s attention is clearly going to require additional stimuli to definitively capture tonight. Thankfully, that’s nothing Castiel isn’t prepared to handle. While Dean stuffs his face, Cas kicks off the heavy boots that are standard-issue (New Washington must have, at some point, raided a U.S. military stockpile—the storage warehouse designated for militia use is brimming with both gear and weapons from every branch, stripped and rebranded: N.W., nothing more). Socks go too, straight into the laundry basket ( _laundry basket. Industrial washer and dryer in the basement. This is barely an apocalypse, at this point)_ and Castiel disappears into the bathroom with his duffle.

There are two things inside that duffle, both of which Castiel has been saving for just such an occasion as this. The first he borrowed from Brynn in exchange for one Saturday night’s release from her scheduled patrol duty, something about birthdays and tradition-dictated intoxication, Castiel didn’t really care but did think she settled low. He would have been willing to go as high as three nights off, her loss. 

The other is from the aforementioned military stockpile; a plain, long-sleeved white button-down shirt at least two sizes too big for his frame, even with the increased muscle he’s put on in recent months. Castiel strips naked before pulling it on, buttoning it up completely save for the two at the very top. The cuffs hang low, drifting slightly past the tips of Castiel’s fingers, _perfect._ Pulling out Brynn’s sapphire-blue underwear, satin with a lace overlay and threaded on the sides with gorgeous, soft ribbon that ties at the bottom hem and dangles attractively, Castiel smirks. 

He slips them on and then rethinks it, stepping out and leaving them puddled on the floor to do some extra shaving and trimming he usually doesn’t bother with. This is a special occasion, after all. He touches up his face and neck while he’s at it, because smooth is the name of the game tonight, and then fixes his hair so that it’s styled but wild, just the way Dean likes it. When the undergarment is back in place ( _sensationally delightful against his cock, why has he not tried this sooner?),_ Castiel turns in the mirror and lifts the tail of the shirt, just to see if the look matches the feeling. 

To his great amusement and satisfaction, it does, the delicate fabric emphasizing the curve of his ass and hips in what he thinks is an _extremely_ alluring manner, if Castiel does say so himself. The ends of the pretty blue ribbon contrast in such a lovely way against his tanned and muscular thighs, and Castiel _finally_ thinks he understands the allure of all that pornography Dean used to consume way back when. His eyes scan critically over his own body, but ultimately, he’s satisfied that the sight truly would make a _very_ arousing two-page spread. 

That _is_ what he’s counting on, after all. Just to compare one last time, Castiel rummages in the bottom of the duffle, pulling out the aging magazine he found stuffed in the bottom of one of Dean’s boxes while they were unpacking. 

A porn rag, if he’s remembering the terminology correctly, dated from 2008, before everything went to shit. If Dean kept it this long, it’s safe to assume that the images in it depict things Dean was and is still attracted to. If the well-worn state of the binding and the creases on several pages in particular are any indication, Castiel has nothing to worry about. 

Because he’s nothing if not antagonistic, Castiel leaves the magazine on the counter next to the sink for Dean to find later. Just in case the little show he’s about to put on distracts Dean so much that he fails to connect the dots. 

It’s opened to the page he took inspiration from; a stunning young brunette and blue-eyed starlet in nothing but pretty sapphire panties and a men’s long-sleeved dress shirt. White, just like Castiel’s, but unbuttoned a _lot_ further, which is to say, all the way. Not that Castiel has any of what she has to show off for Dean, but he’s confident that Dean likes what’s under Castiel’s shirt just fine. He certainly hasn’t had any complaints thus far, especially while Castiel is fucking him screaming and boneless into the mattress. 

That thought stirs some interest in Castiel’s panties, and looking down, he genuinely hopes Brynn doesn’t want them back, because there is very little chance they are going to survive—never mind the sanitary concerns. Perhaps it’s best Brynn didn’t ask for much in the trade, Castiel may have to offer further recompense after all. He palms his crotch and adjusts himself slightly, but after another check in the mirror (lifting up the front of the shirt this time), he decides that the bulge is even more attractive and stops trying to will it away. 

With a last deep breath, Castiel smooths the shirt down over his thighs and opens the door. Once it’s out of the way, he leans casually against the frame, bicep flush with the wood and forearm draped over his hair, crossing one leg over the other, intentionally casual. 

The provocative entrance works like a charm: Dean’s eyes go wide and he drops his fork with a clatter, hand suspended in mid-air while his jaw drops in disbelief. At this point, Castiel and Dean have had sex a countless number of times, sometimes more than once a day, in all positions and every way that strikes their fancy. 

There hasn’t been a _need_ to seduce one another, to dress-up or roleplay, or be anyone other than themselves, because both of them still crave each other madly for exactly who they are. As it turns out, denying oneself the thing one wants most makes it _extremely_ satisfying when one finally gives in and experiences said thing, no bells and whistles needed. In summary, what Castiel is doing now is something new, for both of them. 

Instead of speaking, Castiel drops his arms and laces his fingers together before lifting them again and stretching. He presses his shoulders against the door frame, arching his spine and sliding a foot up the back of one leg, really letting Dean get an eyeful of his profile. The shirt rides up, but not quite far enough to reveal the big surprise, so Castiel flips himself around, hugs the doorframe with his left arm, right leg, really playing up the tease. 

As if Dean wasn’t already wishing he was painted trim and possibly considering making a demon deal to become such, his slack-jawed, glazed over expression says Castiel’s plan is succeeding in spades. 

With a finger lingering in his mouth à la the magazine photo he’s imitating, Castiel bends over, stretching languidly in the reverse arch of his back before letting his hand drop from his mouth. Dean’s eyes follow like a laser as Castiel palms his thigh, dragging lazy fingers slowly over his ass, taking the bottom of the shirt up with him. 

As soon as the panties are revealed, Dean’s out of his chair like a shot, knocking over the godforsaken portable table and the (thankfully empty) dinner plate in the process, not that Dean pays them one ounce of attention as they crash to the floor. When he gets close enough, Castiel stops him with the tip of one finger pressed to the middle of Dean’s chest. He waits; eyes hungry and chest moving beneath Castiel’s finger in a way that betrays him completely. 

“What are we doing here, Cas?” Dean asks, tongue darting out to lick his lips as his eyes are drawn to the once-again dropped hem of Castiel’s shirt (and what’s underneath). 

Castiel grins, pulls his hand back to toy with the buttons on his shirt, to start to undo them, his head dropping back against the frame of the door, eyes glued to Dean. “We are doing whatever you want to be doing,” he says easily, teasingly, the shirt dropping open as his fingers reach the bottom, popping the last button and letting the edges of the fabric fall wide. He presses his hips forward, drawing Dean’s eye before scraping his own nails across his stomach, hard enough to leave pale lines behind. Dean swallows heavily and finally looks up to meet his gaze. 

“What would you like to be doing, Dean? Never mind,” Castiel adds, biting back a laugh as Dean groans and presses the heel of his hand to his crotch. “We don’t need to decide right now. Take your pants off.” 

Castiel’s never seen Dean move faster, the entirety of his clothing disappearing before Castiel can get more than a step away from the door. Dean doesn’t hesitate, grabbing him by the hips and pulling as he steps back towards the bed. _That’s fine._ Castiel lets Dean think that he’s in charge for the moment, allowing himself to be manhandled into Dean’s lap while Dean relaxes back against the headboard of the bed. 

The position works like a charm—Dean’s hard and grinding up against the soft satin Castiel is wearing with a blissful smile on his face. His hands bracket Castiel’s hips, Castiel’s arms around his neck, and honestly, Castiel’s entirely pleased with how predictable Dean has been. As for him, the tight cut of his underwear is unable to contain him for long, and Dean takes full advantage, tugging the fabric down to take Castiel in hand and thumb over the head of his cock. 

Taken by surprise, Castiel shivers and dips down to kiss Dean, tasting his mouth, accidentally relinquishing true control for _half_ of a second, but Dean sees it and smirks.

“You gonna tell me what this is about, sweetheart?” Disgruntled, Castiel does his best to look impassive and unbothered, even as Dean works him over more thoroughly, stopping only to dip two fingers behind his balls and press and _oh, fuck his life._ Castiel’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder, _alright, game is up,_ as waves of pleasure that match with the pulse of Dean’s clever fingers put a real damper on making _words._

“I’m seducing you,” Castiel says petulantly, once he’s able, glaring down his nose at Dean’s absolutely delighted grin. His eyes widen and he raises an eyebrow patronizingly, rolling Castiel’s balls in his hand with casual indifference. 

“I noticed that,” Dean says. “Care to fill me in on why? Not like it’s generally necessary, not that I’m complaining.” He fingers the edge of Castiel’s shirt and lets his hand run down the length, brushing lightly against Castiel’s chest and stomach as he goes. “This is _hot,_ Cas.” 

“Thank you,” he replies peevishly, still annoyed that Dean has managed to achieve the upper hand here. “I thought you’d take the ultimatum I have to give you better this way.” 

“Oh?” Dean says, amused. Castiel watches with resigned interest as Dean’s free right hand retrieves oil from the side table and wets his fingers, switching them out with the hand that’s been torturing him up to this point. Because he’s Dean, and he’s infuriating, of course he wastes no time in walking those fingers back to push inside Castiel’s hole. 

“I hate you,” Castiel says through gritted teeth and Dean laughs, extremely pleased with himself. 

“You did say whatever I wanted,” Dean reminds him, pink cheeks and sparkling green eyes so infuriatingly attractive Castiel never stood a fighting chance. 

Gathering the last of his wits and closing his eyes against Dean’s crooked fingers brushing over his prostate, Castiel blows out a breath and tries to center himself. “I’ve decided to give you until the Founder’s Day party to get your ass out of this room and rejoin polite society,” Castiel declares, as firmly as he’s able. “If you don’t, I will drag you out and force you to have fun, as I’m very certain alcohol, parties, normally rationed food in large portions—all of these things are classic “Dean” activities under the descriptor of ‘fun’.” 

Castiel realizes his mistake too late, pulling out the actual air quotes even as he’s perched on Dean’s fingers, and as such, he’s left to scowl while Dean howls with laughter and nearly falls over in bed. 

“Alright, Cas,” Dean agrees, wiping the tears from his eyes with his non-occupied hand before reaching up to cup Castiel’s cheek and pull him down (somewhat resistantly) to be kissed and soothed like a grumpy child adverse to bedtime. _Terrible_ metaphor, considering, but there it is. 

With a sigh (and that persistent, cocky smile), Dean flips them, dragging Castiel’s panties down to mid-thigh just as soon as he’s flat on his back. “I’ll do you one better,” he offers, tugging on the hem of the underwear. “You find _me_ a pair of these for next time, and I’ll come out for your stupid party.” Castiel narrows his gaze and Dean quickly amends. “And everything after that,” he clarifies, with a roll of his eyes. “No more hiding, I hear you loud and clear.” Unfortunately, he punctuates his offer by spreading Castiel’s legs and swallowing his cock down without pretense, and Castiel is in no goddamn shape to iron out things like _specifics_ and details. 

Without further argument, Castiel lets Dean press him up against the wall, holds the headboard while Dean fucks him hard, makes them both come in record time, and is unsurprised when Brynn’s lingerie does, in fact, end up ruined. 

_Well, mission accomplished,_ he thinks sleepily as Dean assumes his sated, octopus-limbed position at his side. 

“I miss you,” he says out loud, but Dean is already asleep.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One to go :) Probably time we hear from Chuck again, huh?


	6. Founder's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When the sun has gone down, the street lights have come on, and Castiel’s sunglasses have relocated themselves to hang on the collar of Dean’s t-shirt, Dean turns to him and extends a hand. “Dance with me,” he suggests, eyes twinkling, and as usual, Castiel would deny him nothing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The "real" End. ;) 
> 
> Warnings for very general references to the events of s15, which I feel like is pretty traumatic for some of us at this point and for Cas wearing tactical gear and a bulletproof vest that says "COMMANDER" on the back :thirst_emoji:

Three more patrol-less Saturdays and a small handful of party mix later, Castiel manages to negotiate the procurement of another item from Brynn, as well as apologize for the ruined piece (that she apparently never expected him to return, of course she didn’t). Dean loves it, naturally, refuses to let Castiel get anywhere near it, wears it under his regular clothing, and washes it carefully in the sink when he’s done. Much to his chagrin, Castiel more often sees it hung carefully by clothespins in the bathroom than he does on Dean himself. 

But Dean is pleased, and that is the important thing, for Founder’s Day is quickly approaching and Dean has not yet left the room. 

Life continues as usual, with Dean commanding the entire militia from the fifth floor of Chitaqua: the Sequel’s home base and Castiel carrying out all of the practical duties and appearances that are demanded from them as leaders. He could just stop, he supposes, but he’s done much more and much worse for Dean, on much more tenuous reasoning and justification. Why stop now? 

Founder’s Day arrives red-dawned and relatively warm for early spring. With some reluctance, Castiel leaves Dean still sleeping in their bed (the hour is ungodly, _everyone_ should be sleeping, but apparently he’s disgustingly responsible these days) and looking more angelic than Castiel has ever felt. 

The next several hours are filled with a lot of the usual, except _more_ of it, and the work doesn’t stop coming. Patrols have been increased for the party and everyone has to be cycled through fairly so as to maintain both normal coverage and an additional presence on the streets, while still allowing for both recreation time (read: partying) _and_ sleep. The task is daunting and Castiel has never resented Dean more for simply getting to fuck off because he wants to. 

By the time he has everything sorted and assigned and is relatively confident no one is intentionally misunderstanding his instructions so as to gain additional off-duty (drinking) hours, it’s late afternoon and the street outside Chitaqua’s building is bustling. There’s music and copious amounts of free-flowing food and alcohol, and the entire population of New Washington seems intent on cramming itself into the main thoroughfare, just for kicks. 

There is still no sign of Dean. 

Dejected, Castiel sits cross-legged atop the roof of the SUV-turned-mobile-command unit established specifically for this event. The warm breeze ruffles his hair as he contemplates the pill bottle resting in his hands. It’s the last of the party mix he’d put together back in Chitaqua, previously stored in a giant ziploc and relocated to the small bottle as needed for portability. It’s been three days since he last dipped into it, and while the idea of utilizing chemical assistance to help him suffer through this party alone is tempting, Castiel refrains. 

In fact, he eyeballs the nearest trash can, placed about ten feet from the front of the car, closes one eye and shoots the rattling pill bottle like a basketball, _swoosh. Nothing but net._

And that, as they say, is that. 

With a sigh, Castiel leans back onto his hands, shifting a little to relocate the radio on his hip so that it stops digging into his ass, intending to turn his face up to the late-afternoon sun and relax. Except, as he does, movement from the front doors of Chitaqua: The New and Improved (still working on it) catches his eye. 

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, an unbidden smile catching his lips. He watches as Dean wanders out of the heavy double doors and onto Chitaqua’s front stoop almost lazily, one hand scratching at the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. 

He’s wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and a blue-green flannel, ultra-casual compared to Castiel’s all-black tactical dress (bulletproof vest included, big white letters that say “COMMANDER” on the back, technically this one is Dean’s), but he’s _supposed_ to be visible today. Alternatively, Dean can do what he wants. No one here needs the marker of duty wear to identify Dean, and if they do, that person probably doesn’t need to be able to find him so easily. 

At the edge of the stoop, Dean stops and scans the crowd, eyes sweeping over it only once before locating Castiel and smiling hesitantly. Dean makes his way over, stopped every three feet or so by various people (including but not limited to his own soldiers, who seem thrilled that he’s out and about) who want to clap his shoulder, shake his hand, steal just a tiny piece of the sunshine that is Dean’s presence and take it with them. 

Patiently waiting atop the SUV, Castiel takes in how Dean has changed over these past few months. He’s still fit and muscular; his self-confinement never stopped him from working out with weights and the chin-up bar he’d mysteriously obtained and installed while Castiel was out one day. 

His skin, though, is pale—paler than Castiel has ever seen it. The effect is odd, it makes Dean look delicate, sick almost, when the reality is that he’s anything but that. Castiel can also see that he’s struggling in the natural light, eyes squinting and blinking a lot, despite the fact that the golden daylight is starting to melt into evening. 

_Perhaps that’s why it took him so long to come out, to begin with_ , Castiel muses. It wouldn’t be unlike Dean to double down on a mistake, just to avoid owning up to it.

When Dean reaches his side, Castiel pulls a pair of sunglasses from the pocket of his duty pants and hands them down without comment. With a relieved look of thanks, Dean dons them immediately and then grins up at Castiel, who shakes his head and offers him a hand up. 

“Welcome back,” he says evenly, adjusting his grip on Dean’s hand to lace their fingers together as Dean settles easily onto the roof next to him. “I’m glad you’re here.” 

“Not your fault commanding an army is a lot fuckin’ harder without my suave presence and undeniable expertise,” Dean grunts, staring straight ahead, a slight flush coloring those pale cheeks. Castiel pats his hand and suppresses the smile tickling at the corner of his mouth.

“Of course, Dean,” he replies. 

They sit comfortably like that for a while, helped along by the fact that as soon as Dean’s soldiers realize he’s there, they start falling all over each other to bring him things. Cups of beer and liquor, plates of food. Castiel might be affronted, but he _is_ reaping the benefits, so directed irritation and punitive measures seem a bit excessive, at least for the moment. 

When the sun has gone down, the street lights have come on, and Castiel’s sunglasses have relocated themselves to hang on the collar of Dean’s t-shirt, Dean turns to him and extends a hand. “Dance with me,” he suggests, eyes twinkling, and as usual, Castiel would deny him nothing. 

A makeshift dance floor has appeared in the middle of the town square, and currently, there’s a small group of musicians playing stringed instruments and a keyboard, something slow and sultry, meant to be swayed to. Dean jumps down off of the SUV before reaching back up to grab Castiel around the waist with two hands and hop him down like some sort of damsel in distress. It’s wholly unnecessary yet entirely endearing and Castiel can hardly breathe, definitely can’t speak for how widely he’s smiling. 

Arm-in-arm, he and Dean are stopped halfway across the square to the dance floor by one of their (frantic) patrol units, come to seek advice on an encounter they disagreed upon how to handle. To Castiel’s great surprise and pleasure, Dean squeezes his hand before telling Castiel he’ll take care of it, whatever _it_ is, and to go grab a drink, relax, whatever he wants.

There are several vendors edging the dance floor and Castiel’s get-up ensures he doesn’t need to trade or barter to get anything he wants. Settling on a cup of slightly-too-sweet, unnervingly blue punch, he nurses it while watching Dean out of the corner of his eye, trying very hard not to be obvious that that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

It’s not very long before Dean joins him again, and somehow, he looks brighter, more confident, reflecting back at Castiel the leader he remembers, without the harsh (read: slightly suicidal/homicidal) edges The End carved into him. “Everything copacetic?” Castiel asks, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, though Dean lets him off the hook.

“Yup,” he agrees with a nod, purloining Castiel’s cup and finishing off the concoction with a grimace that Castiel suspects has nothing to do with the burn of homemade grain alcohol and everything to do with the truckload of sugar someone mixed it with. Where the blue came from, though, that is the real mystery. 

Setting the cup back down on the vendor’s table, Dean whisks Castiel out onto the dance floor and pulls him close. There are fairy lights strung up around the square, draped around trees and hanging from lamp posts, over traffic signs that no longer have any use, awnings, whatever’s handy. Their luster creates a sort of ethereal glow on Dean’s face, a big improvement over how washed out he looked in the natural light, or maybe Dean is just _happy._

Now there’s a crazy thought. Castiel might not even have considered the possibility, were it not for the fact that he’s finding himself shockingly content as well. 

The bulletproof vest Castiel is wearing makes it slightly uncomfortable to slow dance close the way he wants to, but Dean seems to find it amusing and just hooks his arms underneath the edge around Castiel’s waist. That leaves him to encircle arms around Dean’s neck, and really, there’s nothing to complain about there. With the music soft and sweet in the background, Castiel stares unabashedly into Dean’s eyes, appreciating the way they crinkle at the corners, the way he looks back without reservation or fear. 

“Thanks for dragging my ass out here,” is all Dean says, but there’s something much heavier behind his words.

“Always,” Castiel replies, before tightening his arms to draw Dean in for a kiss that’s reciprocated easily. They sway together for a long moment, lips meeting and parting softly before Castiel moves to pull back and see if Dean would like to go for a walk or tour the wall. He’s never actually been on top of it, and Castiel thinks he’ll appreciate the turrets, and the built-in gun-range off of the south end, by the fields. Plus, Castiel has inside knowledge that there are going to be fireworks later, and he can’t think of anything more enjoyable than catching a private show with Dean from one of the best seats in the whole city. 

When Castiel leans back, Dean’s eyes remain closed in his wake, his lips _just_ barely parted, like he wasn’t quite ready to separate. He’s still, unmoving, and he looks so beautiful, so _peaceful,_ that it takes Castiel almost a full minute to realize that something is very wrong. 

Dean isn’t just _still,_ he’s frozen. 

“Dean?” Castiel voices, slightly panicked as he reaches up to touch Dean’s face. Nothing happens, he might as well be made of wax. “Dean!” he yells, backing up and slipping free from Dean’s grasp around his waist, his arms left behind still hovering in mid-air. It would be comical, if it wasn’t so unbelievably terrifying, and Dean doesn’t react at all. 

Swallowing the rising terror (and bile) in his throat, Castiel looks around wildly and realizes that it’s not just Dean, the entire _street_ is frozen. While he can’t be certain, he strongly suspects that this phenomenon—whatever it is—extends past the street, probably to the entire city. There’s a _calm_ in the air, an extreme silence that includes the absence of wind, animal noises, generators— _everything. Pure,_ complete silence. 

Strangely, the last time Castiel remembers feeling (because this _is_ the kind of silence you _feel)_ this total lack of sound was several millennia ago, while he sat in the depths of what would eventually become the Milky Way, watching the birth of a particular star. That this event is supernatural in origin is without question; the thing Castiel needs to ascertain now is whether whatever is causing the freeze is malevolent, and after that, what it wants from them. 

_From him, really,_ Castiel recognizes, since the fact that he remains unfrozen has to mean something. 

He doesn’t have to wait for long. 

As he turns in the street, eyes scanning everything and mind working overtime to decide where to go, what to do next, Castiel abruptly understands. It’s a layered moment, the Presence buried within the weight of the silence so well it’s no wonder he missed it at first. After all, this particular being has only appeared to Castiel once before, and he was neither sober nor in any kind of shape mentally to focus at the time. 

“Chuck,” Castiel growls, spinning around to search the street for any kind of visual anomaly, anything to suggest where Chuck is or what he wants, since apparently, this is a game to him. He should have known.

It’s not even surprising when Castiel spots Chuck perched atop the very SUV he and Dean had vacated not an hour prior. As soon as he does, Chuck waves enthusiastically and calls across the silent square. “Hey, Cas! What’s cooking?”

Castiel stalks forward, but before he can get far, Chuck vanishes from the SUV and reappears directly in front of him. “Was that necessary?” 

With a careless shrug, Chuck waves him off. He _still_ doesn’t look like a God, never mind _the_ God, Castiel’s Father, the Creator and the Destroyer, The Alpha and the Omega, Tetragrammaton, The Word, The Law, Maker of Peace and Opener of Blind Eyes. No, this scrawny, messy-haired wreck in a dirty t-shirt, ill-fitting jeans (not that Castiel can talk, there) and a beat pair of Converse looks like _Chuck._ Chuck, the asshole who refused to go on any actual Chitaquan missions for any reason but never had a problem sharing in the spoils that came back. 

“Just thought I’d check in on you two,” Chuck says casually, looking around like he’s taking the city in for the first time, like his human form means anything. It’s a convincing show, but Castiel knows better. Still, he doesn’t point that out, because God. “This is an interesting turn. Not what I expected, but interesting.” 

Raising his eyebrows, Castiel lifts his hands and then drops them. “I wasn’t aware that we were supposed to be seeking your approval. In fact, we _aren’t,”_ Castiel rephrases, the conversation barely started and already he’s exhausted by Chuck’s shit. Perhaps he should be more respectful, more cautious. After all, this _is_ God, and it’s entirely possible that Castiel is the last person left in this universe who can still move around of his own free will. 

_Oh well_ , no one’s ever accused Castiel of falling in line, might as well live up to his rebel reputation. 

“You left us, you know,” Castiel continues angrily, swiftly building up steam the more he talks. Chuck just listens thoughtfully, which only makes Castiel more furious. “ _Twice,_ in case you’d forgotten. You…you hid in plain sight, allowed Dean and—and _Sam_ to suffer, all those years, when you could have just as easily snapped your fingers and fixed it. We’re doing just fine here, now, no thanks to you. No one in this world _needs_ you, Chuck. So why don’t you just move along, go back to whatever second-chance, fix-it timeline you created and play with your new toys there, because we aren’t interested in your _stories_. Dean has outgrown you. _I’ve_ outgrown you, Father.” 

Castiel stands tall, glares down at Chuck without repent or mercy, but Chuck just blinks up at him sadly.

“Why does everyone keep saying that to me?” he asks, and Castiel balks. “Oh, not here,” he clarifies, waving his hand before sinking his chin into his palm and bracing that elbow on his free arm folded across his chest. “Not even in this year, actually. Twenty nineteen, not that you’ll probably live to see that, you people don’t even have vaccines anymore, do you?”

Chuck pauses until Castiel gives a token shrug, and then immediately changes tack, his tone angrier. “Why is it so _difficult_ for the characters I write to simply follow the scripts that I give them?” Dropping his arms and sighing, Chuck shakes his head. “I’ll never understand. I gave them _good_ stories! Made them heroes. I just…I like a very particular ending.” 

“Free will?” Castiel volunteers, hardly knowing why he’s bothering. “Or perhaps you’re just not a very good writer.” 

_That_ gets Chuck’s attention, in a way nothing else has yet. “I could end all of this in a snap, Castiel,” he says scorchingly, eyes blazing and _there, in there,_ behind those ice blue eyes Castiel can _almost_ see the Divine rage and fury, pent up and aching to boil over. It should feel threatening, but for whatever reason, Castiel just can’t bring himself to care. What could Chuck rain down on them that’s worse than what they’ve already been through? “I thought we’d been over this,” Chuck says, raising two fingers that are already pressed together, poised to snap.

Feeling reckless, Castiel shrugs. “Go ahead. Trust me, it wouldn’t help.”

“That’s bleak,” Chuck replies, eyebrows knitting together, but he pauses, and that’s the opening Castiel needs. 

“That’s life,” he says, gesturing around them. “Humans adjust. It’s what they do, with or without your permission. You know, there was a time when I didn’t think Dean could. Or that he would, whichever. And yet, here he is, proving me, you, _all of us_ wrong. He’s the best of humanity, despite you, Chuck. You can end him, if that’s what you choose, far be it that I can try and stop you. But whether it’s now or in 2019, here or in some other timeline where you’re still able to retain the delusion that you’re remotely in control, _Dean Winchester_ will continue surprising you. He will never be your puppet, he will _always_ learn to write his own ending.” 

Castiel takes a deep breath, filled with righteous rage and pride. “So either end the world, or leave us the hell alone.” 

The cold glint in Chuck’s eye flashes when it catches the fairy lights, or maybe that’s God himself, Castiel supposes that’s equally likely. “I could simply end _him,_ ” Chuck offers. “I think we both know that would be much worse for you.” 

But Castiel’s anticipated that very reply, and he just grins, nods, faces Chuck with the only words that can meet that threat head-on. “When we spoke in Detroit, you might have been right,” he says slowly. “But I know better now. _Nothing_ Dean has given me is yours to take away. That’s the trouble with allowing the characters in your stories free reign, or at least free will. Even if you wiped Dean from every last corner of my memory, the very cells of my body would still know him, would continue to replicate with everything he’s carved into my being driving them onward.” 

Castiel straightens his shoulders, determined. “My mortal heart beats for Dean and Dean alone, and there’s nothing you could ever do—God or not—to take that away.”

He’s prepared for— _something_. Anything. A lightning strike to his head, to Dean’s head, for the whole world to burst into flames around them—dealer’s choice, really. But none of that happens, and Castiel finds himself letting out the breath he was holding with reservation. Chuck is staring back at him, looking him up and down, regarding Castiel with brand new interest and— _could it be?_ A hint of _respect_ in his eyes that Castiel has never seen before. 

“That’s interesting,” Chuck says thoughtfully, snapping fingers now occupied stroking his chin, which Castiel supposes is an improvement. “So… what you’re telling me is that _you_ , Castiel, the angel with the broken chassis, as Hester used to say, are the key to all of this?” He stares off into the distance and Castiel gets the distinct impression that Chuck is no longer speaking _to_ him at all. 

“Thanks for the tip,” Chuck says distractedly. “I’ll have to pay it forward with my new toys. Your words, not mine,” he says, throwing his hands up cheekily when Castiel scowls. “Yeah, that could really work, couldn’t it? I’ll just… keep you two a little bit farther apart, but make _Sam and Dean_ think it’s about _them_. Fascinating. You should write, Cas. You know, just for that, I think I’ll let you live. As a token of my appreciation.” Chuck smiles widely and Castiel takes a step back, arms folded.

“Don’t do me any favors.”

With a laugh that makes Castiel’s skin goose pimple and his spine shiver, Chuck’s form shimmers and disappears into thin air, the street around them unfreezing the very moment he’s gone. 

Somewhere behind him, Castiel hears a faint, “Oof!” over the sound of the music and turns around to see Dean face down on the ground, like he had leaned forward expecting to be caught, only to find nothing where a Castiel-shaped body was supposed to be.

“Apologies,” Castiel murmurs, rushing forward to help Dean up off of the pavement with a hand under his arm. 

“You were just—” Dean starts, cutting himself off and cocking his head to the side in confusion. “What gives?” 

Unsure of exactly how to answer that question, Castiel just shakes his head and promises to fill Dean in later, when the party is over. He looks carefully around the street, but Chuck really does seem to be gone, his presence evaporated along with the unnatural quiet and stillness he brought with him. Perhaps Castiel should feel guilty, should try and _do_ something about the alternate universe Sam and Dean (and Castiel) that Chuck is heading off to torture, but even if he wanted to, where would he start? 

There are millions of other timelines in the multiverse, and Chuck could be in any of them. Chuck could be in _all_ of them, in fact, he _is_ God. No, the best thing Castiel can do is to protect the timeline he has access to with his full potential, along with the people in it. Including and especially, Dean. 

Castiel knows now, the way to do that is to _live_ with his whole heart and soul. Assuming he has a soul, which, Chuck aside, Castiel sort of is these days. He feels a lot more human than he used to with Dean by his side, impossible as that may sound.

Relievedly, Dean doesn’t push, just smiles widely at Castiel and says, “Okay, sugar,” accepting what he’s given, accepting _Castiel_ for what he’s able to give. When Castiel smiles back, Dean stretches a hand out and asks him to dance again, whisks him away across the dance floor in the worst approximation of a waltz Castiel has ever seen. It doesn’t matter though, because despite the stepped-on toes and the way they make absolute fools of themselves, they’re both laughing, they’re both _happy,_ and they’re so very much in love. 

Later, Castiel will observe with pride as Dean engages with his soldiers; joking with them, building them up, giving them something to fight for. Later, Castiel’s resolve will steady when they watch the fireworks from atop the south wall, when he tells Dean about Chuck and Dean very bluntly hollers at the sky for Chuck to “go pound sand.” Later, Castiel’s heart will swell when Dean takes him to bed and promises to love him for as long as they’re stuck in this timeline or any other, whether that’s one more minute, an hour, a lifetime, or an endless eternity in Heaven or Hell. Castiel will tell him with no reservations that he feels the same. 

For right now, Castiel’s content to be whirled around the dance floor with senseless abandon like the teenagers neither of them ever got a chance to be. Chuck and his greater plans are irrelevant, when the two of them are here, like this. This _is_ their story, they are writing their own ending.

 _It’s a miracle,_ Castiel thinks, that they made it. Not a Chuck-created miracle, but one that they carved out for themselves with sweat and bone and blood and tears; theirs and so many others who didn’t make it across the finish line. This—truly _living—_ it’s for everyone they’ve lost, as much as it is for themselves. Castiel knows that it’s a privilege to see Dean like this, smiling and loose the way he is right now, out of their room by his own choice and truly on the road to recovery. 

Today, Castiel is sober and Dean is _free_. In this moment, in fact, he’s carefree, and he’s _happy._ He’s going to be okay. 

They both are.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Seperis for the inspiration and to all of you who read along. There are a few more nods in this chapter.  
> If you enjoyed this story, would you consider giving it a share? In my experience, it's a lot harder to get readers on canon fics, so I would appreciate any recs! Here is a <https://castielslostwings.tumblr.com/post/627929169761894400/after-the-end>
> 
> if you want to share.


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